#YOU HAVE TO SEE HOW SHE INKED ALISTAIR LIKE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

musicfeedsmysoul12 · 5 months ago

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“We are the last of the Elvhen. Never again shall we submit,” is spoken around a fire. Cian, clad in blue armour that fits a bit strange on him and listening to the tales of his people, catches the eye of Zevran, who looks half-awed and knowing.

Cian smiles.

Cian is born of a father who dies before his birth and a mother who walks away. She is broken by the birth of a child she did not actually want and the loss of a man she loves.

Ashalle lies later, telling the son she raised his birth parents loved him. His mother just… hurt.

Cian never asks about his mother much. He will never know just how much like her he is.

Cian has no magic thrumming in his veins. Marethari frowns and sighs. She wants one of her clan to be her First. No magic has been born in their clan for years, and she worries. They have to trade a child, which she does not want.

It’s when she plans for Cian to marry Merrill, settling the matter in her mind as perfect for the clan, with Cian’s magical heritage.

Cian doesn’t like it.

Travelling with humans is strange. Cian is used to tents. He and Tamlen would roam far when they could, hunting away from camp. Using a tent was nicer than spending it on the harsh ground.

But it’s the lack of chatter in Elvish. It’s the strange lack of children running around arguing about something. The children sneaking into Master Ilen’s ship to steal some of his safer inks to make their own Vallslin, being chased away with shouts.

The lack of Halla and their comforting scent, the lack of one of the Harhens calling for ears to tell stories. The lack of the Keeper speaking.

With Duncan and the wardens, there is noise. Chatter and cheer. They welcome him and his animal companions, though they eye him carefully as he sips from the vials given by the Keeper. The Taint in him is strong.

“You have remarkable will,” says one of the older Wardens a week after Cian left his clan.

“I had to,” Cian replies. He doesn’t mind the Wardens. None have called him names, and most are willing to part with coin if he fixes their gear like he fixes his own after a bandit ambush.

But it’s not his clan.

He isn’t sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

He’s been to Ostagar before, travelling with his clan. It has been a while. The Kocari Wilds isn’t a place he or his clan likes much; the magic of the air is strange and almost like thick honey walking through it, even without a connection to the Fade.

It’s fuller than he’d expected, with people everywhere and a kennel of dogs. Fen grumbles next to him, and he places a hand on the wolf’s head.

“Calm. I’m not getting a mabari,” he tells the wolf. He walks with his companion to find Alistair. Alu, his owl, is with Duncan, who apparently helps with the birds that the other Wardens have.

It takes only a single conversation for Cian to decide he likes Alistair.

And that he’s nice to look at.

Cian is engaged to Merrill when they are seven, and he doesn’t think about it, even as Marethari drags him into lessons about leading the clan. He doesn’t notice, but Ashalle does the way the Keeper talks down Merrill about her knowledge of the stories, praising Cian, who is more interested in Ilen teaching them how to make armour.

Ashalle sees how Marethari appears to try to push Cian forward more as the proper next Keeper to balance Merrill out.

She purses her lips and ensures her charge spends more time with Master Ilen, away from the pressure of the Keeper.

But it’s not just her.

Cian is ten when Marethari tells him he needs to focus on her lessons over Ilen’s. He frowns at her.

“Why? Merrill will be Keeper. I wanna be a crafts master!” Cian beams and Marethari sighs in her usual way, making everyone feel two inches tall around her.

“Because she needs a guiding hand,” Marethari says. “She is too flighty.”

“She’s always studying!” Cian protests. “Honestly, it’s boring.”

“She needs a guiding hand,” Marethari repeats, but Ashalle steps in, and Cian is off.

He only later realizes Merrill does not have an Ashalle to spirit her away from Marethari.

The trip through the wilds takes a day and night. Cian drinks his potions and lays against Fen, who munches on a deer he brought down himself. The small group rests until the next day to go to the ruins where the chest they seek is.

Jory mutters something about elves that Daveth smacks him for, and Cian ignores it.

Alistair passes the elf a bowl of stew and gives Daveth his next—a silent reprimand to Jory for his words.

Cian can’t help the small smile.

They meet a witch and Asha’Bellanar. Cian knows who she is instantly and bows his head to her. She laughs and grins at him.

“Clever boy, bearing the markings of June. I wonder, clever child, what marvels have you made with your hands… what freedom have you sought in leather or wood,” the woman murmurs.

Cian is glad to be short of her, shuddering.

“That amount of power and age is never pleasant,” he tells the others. “I’ve met Zatharian, and he unnerves me too.”

“Whose that?” Alistair asks.

“An asshole,” Cian says, and it gets much laughter.

It’s true too.

(Later, before… before, Alistair looks at Cian and agrees. “He is an asshole.”)

Cian is fourteen when he kisses Merrill. Both make disgusted faces.

“Eww, you’re like my sister,” Cian tells her.

“You’re my brother,” Merrill agrees. He has been stealing her away from lessons since they were ten. The adults let him, laughing at the ‘cute betrotheds’. Usually, they just run around playing so that Merrill does not have to keep studying even after her brain hurts.

They go to Marethari and Ashalle, requesting to break the betrothal. Marethari refuses, but they only need one person to agree.

Marethari complains to some of the clan, and there is a divide: some who are upset and some who do not care.

Cian does not like it.

Cian finds a wolf cub and asks the Ranger of the clan for help raising it when he is fifteen. He names it Fen, earning mocking from Merrill and Tamlen.

“Wolf wolf.” Tamlen jokes, the warrior is leaning on Cian, who elbows him.

Marethari purses her lips and complains about Cian again choosing to devote himself to the rouge way of the bow rather than the warrior.

A part of the clan agrees with her. They press upon Cian ideals of a strong warrior leading the clan with Merrill as his wife. Cian responds by trapping all their travels with skills he’s picked up from the master of the craft, who laughs.

He is sick of being told what to do.

Cian sits on his bedroll and stares out at nothing as Fen cuddles close. Daveth and Jory died. Then Ostagar…

Ostagar burned.

Alistair hasn’t spoken since they left Flemeth’s hut, and Cian has only spoken to Morrigan to tell her to shut up. He doesn’t like her, and the words she spits at Alistair remind him of some of the clan who took to Marethari’s preaching about how Cian was going against the greater good. For having a mage born from clan blood was better than Merrill, who worked her fingers to the bone and more. Like how he should take the reigns cause, despite Merrill being brilliant, she was a naive child.

Merrill, who had come to the clan only speaking Elvish and, became sheltered by Marethari in an attempt at control.

Cian turns Morrigan away after getting a mabari (to Fen’s disdain) and reaching Lothering.

He has no use for reminders.

They pick up Sten and Leliana in the village, and Cian finds himself spending time with Sten, caring for Alu, Fen, and his mabari. Cian begins calling Da’Fen a joke. It stuck.

Cian wakes from nightmares of dragons and Darkspawn. He speaks with Alistair, and then his stomach twists.

Thirty years. The dreams. Nothing but death.

His choices stripped away.

Again.

Cian was a child when Marethari decided his future. As he grew he pushed and pushed against her desires. He did not want to be a warrior; he did not want to be a leader. Ashalle was a sturdy presence who stepped between them each time, and not all of the clan listened to Marethari. Yet enough did that, he was pushed towards a specific goal.

Cian was too stubborn to listen to them. Ashalle told him often as a child, his wishes mattered. She never told him of his mother’s hate for the idea of children and how she was pressed into it by the clan so that their Keeper could have an heir. How Marethari, the former Second to their old Keeper, led the charge.

Ashalle never told him that not only the loss of his father but also the fact that his mother did not want a child led her to leave. Cian did not need that on his shoulders. But it was what opened her eyes to how their clan tended to… discard the feelings of others, discard the wishes in favour of the greater good, decided by the loud-mouthed majority.

It is what causes her to stand between Cian and the others.

She saw a friend walk to her death in despair and anger over a lack of choice.

She would let Cian make his.

Cian chooses June as his Vallaslin, and Marethari huffs he should choose El’ganar. He refuses and makes loud comments about everyone who listens to what he wants. The clan tradition states that they get to choose who they want. Even the people who side with Marethari in her battle against Cian’s will would disapprove.

She glares at Cian, who just smiles back.

It’s his choice, and he makes it gladly.

They battle for a town overrun by undead. Cian and Fen work together as ambush predators while Sten steps in alongside Alistair to fight directly. Leliana has climbed up on a roof with her bow. Alu swoops down to distract. The villagers cheer and fight against the monsters who haunted them for days.

It’s like something out of stories.

But then it changes, and suddenly, Cian is in a story told only in hushed whispers around a fire—a story the clan's adults tell him only when he is older.

A tale of Dalish hunting their Keeper down when the demons win. Except they do not hunt down a Keeper here. No, they face down a scared child who now faces death. Who wanted his father to live. Who made a deal he didn’t understand.

Jowan speaks up, and Cian takes the deal.

Isolde is to blame in his mind. She hid Connor’s powers not because she feared the Circle but because she hated magic. He knows of Apostate Elves running from the Circles and the stories they share in horrified voices. But she just doesn’t like magic.

Fitting, she dies to save her son.

Alistair disagrees.

They yell at one another, but Cian only knows of death to free a mage from possession, and they’re damn lucky they could save a child.

Alistair has to agree with that, even if he still hates what Cian did. He also has to accept that the slightly older man doesn’t care about Isolde dying.

Later, later, Alistair will wonder if it was a sign.

They head out to the Circle Tower and get ambushed along the way. An elf who seems off is fighting them. He leaves openings and doesn’t take a shot at Cian, who had slipped on a oil-covered rock. It’s confusing.

The elf is named Zevran. And he is an assassin sent to kill them, though he offers his allegiance in exchange for life. Loyal to money, he claims.

Cian accepts, curious.

If he wanted to live so much, why try to leave openings to die?

When they're sixteen, Cian kisses Tamlen who is his best friend, other than Merrill.

Tamlen doesn’t like it, but Cian does, though only in the sense that he likes kissing boys.

He likes girls, too, and when their clans met, he shared a quick kiss with a pretty girl named Seranni.

But he likes boys a shade more, and he tells Ashalle, who pats his arm, smiling.

Ilen has no more to teach him, the craftsman claims. Cian isn’t sure if he should believe him given that the man’s other apprentice is on Cian’s level but still learning.

“He listens to Marethari too much,” the other young elf says, and Cian sighs.

Another choice was ripped away.

So it’s with a casual comment to the most chatty of the Hahren women that he likes boys. The comments about him getting over himself to marry Merrill die out. He likes girls; he keeps that a secret.

He smirks at Marethari, who is very upset.

Serves her right.

At the Circle Tower, Cian wonders if there could have been a different choice for him if he’d gone here for Connor. But then he’s fighting abominations, dancing around blades. He knows that there would have been a chance for Connor to kill more people.

It’s better what they did.

Fighting through the tower, they end up in the Fade because, of course, they do. Cian has never really enjoyed magic. Perhaps it’s because he does not have it himself or because Merrill used to try to practise her healing on him despite how much she sucked at it.

And the Fade is just… annoying.

He stands at Arlathan. Tamlen is laughing with Merrill, and the two are finally getting married now that they have left Sabre. Their new clan is strong, and Cian takes over as craftsmaster. Marethari is forbidden from going near them, her name spoken among other elves with distaste, and rumours abound that the Sabre clan is not being allowed back.

Cian drinks, and the alcohol burns as the Joining did and…

Wait…

What?

He hates the Fade.

No one asks what everyone saw in the Fade as they rest on the road, heading to Denerim to pick up supplies and get some gossip before going to Orzammar. Perhaps a bit of a strange way to go, but Cian knows how to check trails and tracks along with Dalish symbols, so hunting for a clan isn’t hard.

Wynne and Alistair act ashamed of their dreams. Cian doesn’t get it. It’s personal, yes, but… to be ashamed?

“There’s no shame in fears or desires,” Cian says while he cooks supper.

“Agreed,” Zevran laughs, the assassin sharpening knives near him. Sten grunts from where he is cataloguing their supplies.

“It’s the Chantry,” Leliana says. She is making potions and poisons herself as Alistair patrols the camp, and Wynne does… something magical. Probably a minor barrier to keep pests out of the camp. Merrill and Marethari used to do it, too. “They… discourage those things.”

“Aren’t you a… Sister?” Cian asks.

“I was a lay sister, seeking succour and sanctuary. I believe. But I disagree with some ideals,” Leliana says. “Divine Faustine II is remembered for her views on sexuality and gender that were barbaric. Still, people followed her because she was Divine.”

“Sounds like Marethari,” Cian can’t help but mutter. He doesn’t respond to the questioning looks, focusing on cooking.

Alu hoots from her tree, and the discussion switches to how he could get an owl to follow him around. This became laughter over the meaning of the names of his companions.

It’s a light after a dark time.

Cian saves an owlet from a predator and raises the tiny chick throughout its childhood. The Ranger of the Clan sits down to help him through some but is hands off. Other than to teach the Rangers secret,

It is a handy little thing, a simple potion to encourage a lifespan to lengthen. Not a match, but it’s close. A drop a day, the Ranger says. Fen also gets some now that Cian knows of the potion.

His companions will stay with him. It is glorious.

Cian is twenty-one when he and Tamlen confront humans, when they find a cave, and a mirror.

He’s twenty-one when he wakes up with a vicious ache inside him as the Taint settles.

“Join or die,” the Grey Warden Duncan tells him, face sad. Cian looks at Duncan and then at the clan. He thinks.

He chooses.

“I will join.”

It’s a choice he will both always and never regret.

Denerim is horrible, and Cian watches as Alistair’s fantasy of a happy sibling reunion shatters. The human sits at camp after they’d tricked the fake assistant to the Brother they are looking for into confessing before slaying him. He stares at a campfire.

“I don’t understand,” Alistair says.

“People… are…” Cian hesitates as Zevran sharpens his knives, unashamed in his eavesdropping. “People are complicated.” Cian decides on. “Not everyone is kind; not everyone has the best interests of others at heart.”

“People are out for themselves,” Zevran interjects, and Cian shakes his head as Leliana protests.

It seems the whole camp is listening in.

“It’s not like that!” The redhead says as Wynne tuts.

“You can’t go through life thinking everyone is trustworthy,” Cian interjects. “Always be wary but also kind. Sometimes, the fantasy is never real. And some people are two-faced.”

“It seems a hard way to live,” Alistair says, and Cian sighs.

“It’s not. Trust people, but always be aware that they may take advantage. It’s easy for someone to fake kindness while being a horrible person. Keeper Marethari was like that.” Cian says. “Life is a game of choices. Some people choose to be nice while hiding the venom inside.”

“Not everyone is like that,” Wynne says.

“And I’m not saying they are,” Cian sighs. Creators this woman. She was already reminding him too much of Marethari with her comments on the duty of the Wardens.

The only good thing about her was the healing she provided.

“I was told I received a good price,” Zevran says when discussing his being sold. Cian frowns.

“That’s rather terrible,” he comments. Zevran shrugs without care.

“It is life. Surely yours has not been so idyllic.”

“You can say that again,” Cian says with a snort. “Not to the extent of being sold to the Crows, but it’s been… troubling.”

“Ah, but now we are free,” Zevran laughs. Cian hums, leaning back on his hands.

He supposes they are.

To an extent.

Cian first met a human when he was five, and his hair covered his ears. The human threw a fit a ‘knife ear’ had a human child until Ashalle revealed his ears, and then the words became poison about ‘rats’ breeding.

Cian tries not to base his expectations on that. But…

He can count the amount of humans he likes on one hand. He’s not met many before becoming a Warden, but he’s met enough, and it’s a sad amount.

He meets Duncan, who is added to the list, and then Alistair, who he thinks is funny.

Then Leliana and… at first, he thinks she will not join his list. Morrigan didn’t. But Leliana listens to him, and they trade stories while walking—stories she’s gathered and stories he’s learned at the knee of his elders.

It’s nice.

They fight through Soldier’s Peak and meet a blood mage whom Cian puts into the territory of Flemeth and Zatherian (and makes him wonder how the Elf stayed alive so long). Avernus is willing to do ethical experiments, though, so Cian lets him live.

Wynne isn’t pleased, but Cian remembers Merrill’s bloody hands and her quiet comments about how easy it is—how she practices by herself at night.

Her rebellion. Her choice.

He lets the man live.

“You’re right,” Alistair says one day as they walk the road.

“About…”

“Being… not less trusting but more aware?” Alistair frowns. “I always believed that there was good and bad, no in between. But…” he sighs. “I met blood mages in the Wardens and always felt off around them. But… I never realized how much of a hypocrite I was.” He shakes his head. “There is more than just what I was led to believe, and I should listen.”

Cian pats the man’s shoulder with a soft smile.

He’s a good man.

Cian and Zevran spar at night. Cian is quick with a blade, like he is with the bow, so it’s fun. Sten joins in, having few chances working against ‘Tallis’ as he terms it.

The Qunari is interesting, and he joins Leliana in Cian’s small story circle. The others drift in and out as well; it’s just those two who stay the most.

When Zevran joins, the stories get raunchy, and it’s all very good fun.

“You’re a virgin?” Cian asks Alistair, unable to stop his mouth. He slaps a hand over it. “I am so sorry.”

“I just… never found the right person,” Alistair says awkwardly. “Was your first time nice?” The other Warden asks the others.

“Yes,” Wynne says with a smirk that has the group cackling (Sten grins a little) at Alistair’s face.

“The Tamasrens worried I was too aggressive when I was a teen and set me with a Tamaseren in training,” Sten says, sparking a few questions that lead Cian to be convinced Sten has a few kids running around, which the man shrugs at.

“It’s like the Dalish,” Cian says. “Some people want kids and don’t have the parts to have them together. I don’t know the common term…” he frowns to himself. “Las-pap or Las-mam are the terms, and I don’t know if there is a translation. But sometimes a pair of women or a couple where one is… ugh, the term is hanalen-ma. Found your true self. A person who discovers they are a man or woman despite not having what people think are the right parts? They may approach a man for his help for having a child. Similarly, a male couple or a couple where one is hanalen-ma will approach a woman.” He shrugs. “My first time with a woman was when they approached me to be Las-pap for them. I could have just… provided without sex, but they were both into men too and curious. I was, as well. I’d been with men but not a woman. It was fun.”

“How scandalous!” Zevran said.

“To you, maybe. To the Dalish, it’s just another way we have children. Mind, I keep my sexuality to my chest. Marethari would never let me hear the end if she knew I liked women and men.” Cian rolls his eyes. “What about you?”

“A teacher among the Crows. Common for the students to get it over with so we can seduce our targets.” Zevran waves his hand with a shrug.

“A lover when I was young. He was kind,” was all Leliana said. “Later a woman… she was… kind but not,” Leliana says no more.

Later that night, Zevran smiles a bit differently at Cian. A look slowly dragging up the dark-haired elf’s body.

He doesn't mind it.

Cain covers for Merrill and Tamlen when the two want to spend time together. Marethari disapproves of the relationship; there is something about Tamlen not being the right sort. He figures it's because Tamlen’s parents joined the clan after fleeing Edgehall’s alienage.

Marethari has ideas about proper. Ones some of the clan mutter that Cian’s father never had.

He doesn't understand the woman and wonders why she acts as she does, why she seems so certain of her beliefs and thoughts.

It's all so confusing.

The clan speaks about splitting. Marethari gives everyone a sad look when they do so. Some of them are quiet, while others roll their eyes.

“Stop trying to guilt trip us like we are naughty children,” Ashalle snaps. Marethari huffs in response, but the younger woman ignores her.

Cian overhears it and thinks about it. Marethari always seems to act like she is a long-suffering adult dealing with children towards all the clan. It's not nice or pretty. He speaks to Tamlen about it, and he agrees. Merrill bites her lip.

Marethari may be harmful, but she is the only mother Merrill knows.

Cian, though, decides to join the others when they leave. It'll annoy Marethari to no end and she will fight. Cian’s bloodline is special to her for it belongs to Sabre. But he will not listen to her.

He won't. It's his choice, and he will not let her choose his path for him.

It's a pity the cave happens first.

Zevran kisses Cian after they find a golem named Shale, and Cian offers them a choice to follow.

“I believe in choosing,” Cian says whenever any party asks if he's upset the control rod didn't work. Honestly, he'd thought Golems to be magical constructs without personality. He had no idea what they were thinking.

It's a soft kiss, and it deepens when Cian kisses back. The two elves fall into bed. Cian keeps a dagger close, however.

He isn't that trusting.

“You have a,” Wynne begins, but Cian shuts it down and tells her to leave if it bothers her that much.

He is not here to have his life controlled, and he makes it known. This is the first time he has talked to the camp about his clan. It comes out, and everyone listens.

It's not the story of Zevran, Leliana, Sten, or Alistair. But it is his story, and they listen.

Wynne sighs and says Marethari had good intentions. Sten comments that breeding leaders is good, but some people do not suit specific roles. “You are a fighter, not an administrator.”

Alistair and Leliana sympathize while Zevran drags him to bed to ‘cheer Cian up.’

It's a good day.

Orzammar is awful. Cian hates being underground and the politics they end up being dragged into. He also hates how two-faced everyone is and despises how the candidates for king smile while expressing anger.

“Behlen is the best choice,” Zevran announces.

“He killed his brother,” Wynne says.

“And he will allow the casteless rights,” Leliana says. She is a little less cheerful in the city. Less cheerful since she spilled her tale to Cian. But she is still kind.

“But-” Wynne cannot argue.

Cian is glad to leave her behind as he, Alistair, Shale, Fen, Da’Fen and a dwarf named Oghren leave for the Deep Roads. It's safe if those who cannot get the Taint or who already know how to avoid it go.

Cian wonders why she stays. He does nothing but ignore her. Alistair likes the attention, a starved child for anything maternal, but Wynne seems focused on him more. It's odd.

“I'm sorry about Branka,” Cian tells Oghren a week later, and they finally sit outside. Oghren shrugs. His face is closed, and Cian never speaks of it again.

He made a choice down in the dark. Chose a man who did not want people forced to the anvil over a woman who didn’t.

He will always choose freedom.

“Will you be Las-pap for Merrill?” Marethari asks.

“No,” Cian says. The Keeper glares, and Cian leaves her. He tells Merrill what she said, and the other elf shakes her head.

“I don’t even know if I wish for children,” she confesses. And if I do…” She glances at Tamlen, who smiles back.

“Of course,” Cian laughs.

He thinks of leaving the clan behind with those who wish to choose freedom. He thinks of a life where Merrill is their Keeper and Tamlen her husband. He thinks of a husband for himself, perhaps children if he wishes.

He likes the idea.

Cian only sobs once about the control and choice wrestled out of his grasp. Only once does he sob, face in hands, as he realizes his freedom is gone, the Wardens taking it? He chose to follow and decided to be a Warden.

But he also didn’t.

He did not want to be one, did not want to be a hero.

He does not want this.

But it is his life now. He must now choose his path with chains on his wrists.

He kind of hates it.

Cian does not like the smug look in Wynne’s eyes when they find the Ashes of the human prophet or how she looks at Cian. He gives her a nasty look when she opens her mouth, and Leliana steps in between them. He hides out with Zevran while Leliana drags the older woman to the side.

“Let’s drop her off at the tower,” Cian grumbles.

“Agreed,” Zevran says as he lays in a seductive pose. His face is tight, though.

Rinna. The name echoes in Cian’s head, even as his heart aches at seeing the face of Tamlen once more.

He isn’t… sure what to think of Zevran. The sex is lovely—the kisses, too. The time spent together, just working side by side, is excellent. Yet Cian doesn’t know what to think of the man. At times, he can see the potential for more. At others, he checks for daggers or poison.

Fen and Alu are both wary of the man. They eye him closely. Da’Fen likes him. But Da’Fen likes everyone, even Wynne.

But… Cian sighs. He just doesn’t know.

Saving Arl, Eamon sends them straight off to the forest, where Cian groans upon seeing Zatherian, who seems as much of a grump and creep as ever. Hearing of Witherfang makes Cian suspicious.

“We all knew about the werewolves,” Cian tells Zevran as the other elf studies the gloves Cian found for him, like his mother’s.

“Oh?”

“I’m Dalish. We all knew, and we kept clear.” Cian frowns. “Why would he risk coming here?”

“We will have to see,” Zevran murmurs.

And see, they do.

Ultimately, Cian stands apart from the camp, staring into the night. He’s ended the oldest Dalish left. He finished a curse. He chose freedom.

It still feels empty.

Zevran comes up behind him to hug him, and Cian closes his eyes.

People will always try to control others, to enforce their will upon others. The humans filled Zatherian with so much vengeance that there was no room for anything else. And he hurt people over and over again until nothing was left but death.

“I will always choose freedom,” Cian says.

“I know,” Zevran kisses his neck.

Cian hates Denerim and the Landsmeet. Everyone seems to shove him into a box and try to enforce a will. Eamon demands things, and Alistair quietly follows. Wynne looks down her nose and dictates. Leliana fights her old mentor and is broken, but Cian reminds her she chooses to be kind. It is what makes her better.

Sten, who got his sword back, says everything is ridiculous. He shakes his head as they go after Anora to save her and again when they need to storm a prison to save Cian.

Cian has to agree, though he is distracted.

Zevran offers an earring, which Cian cannot accept. He looks at it and wants it but cannot take it. He knows it should mean more, that Zevran’s refusal to tell him anything is him trying to protect himself.

They argue and then face off against an old friend of Zevran’s.

It’s a mess even before the Landsmeet.

Cian values freedom. He values choice and decision. He talks to Anora and promises to try to save her father. He stands in a room full of humans to stare down a man who betrayed his son-in-law, his king.

He values choice.

He chooses to stay his blade.

Alistair yells; Alistair argues…

Alistair stands as king and is never a Warden.

Never again.

Loghain keeps to himself, and the others let him. Wynne gives the nastiest of looks to Cian, who ignores her with practice. Sten approves of keeping a resource. Oghren doesn’t care; too used to bloody politics. Shale doesn’t give a damn, either.

Leliana and Zevran understand. They understand his choices and his decisions. He chose to honour a promise.

It hurts not to have Alistair with them.

In the end, Cian is happy with his choice, though. After all, one must die to slay the Archdemon. He rolls his eyes when Morrigan reappears with a mysterious offer, telling her to leave before falling into bed with Zevran.

A whispered confession, a tale of love and loss. And a choice.

“I wished to die. I don’t anymore.” Zevran says.

“I’m glad,” Cian says, kissing his… lover deeply.

Fen and Alu like the man now. It shows Cian he’s made the right choice.

Cian goes down in legend. Even with other things happening, such as Lorry Hawke and Mila Trevelyan, Rook, and others, Cian is the Hero of Ferelden. He is Commander of the Grey for a time before he vanishes to Antiva with Zevran, Nathaniel Howe taking the title.

Cian chooses over and over again, living his freedom the best he can. Years later, he speaks with Merrill, the woman married to Carver Hawke. They raise griffins together. He is free, and so is she.

It is a good life.

(Once again, shout out to @dalishious for the Elvhen dictionary. I did come up with the others for surrogacy though.

Las- gift

Mam- mother

Pap-father

Gift father or gift mother, but not really? It's a direct translation, but they aren’t considered the parent of the child.)

#dragon age #dragon age origins #cian mahariel #yeah i don't like marethari #she always struck me as controlling #cian wanted to talk here #for freedom's design #the freedom to choose your own life #and how some people are restricted by others #or they try #alistair and cian become friends again later #years down the line

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scarletinkthelibrarian · 2 years ago

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Zevranholics OC Kiss Week - "A God's Boon"

Some notes before starting: this idea came to me after replying to a prompt on the Zevranholics server about what kind of deity our OCs would be. I imagined my Inquisitor, Silrel, to be a sort of lawful trickster god who values honesty and will turn mortals' wrongdoings against them.

Also, I added a bit of an alteration to the Human Noble Origin to make this drabble work: the Warden (to be specific, @antivan-beau's Beatrice Cousland, who I hope will appreciate this work) doesn't know that it was Rendon Howe who attacked Highever.

Having said everything I needed, hope you enjoy. ^^

<<Be careful, okay? There are a lot of reasons why no one worships him anymore.>>

<<Reasons spread by fools who whined about the consequences of trying to trick a god who values honesty above everything else.>>

Neither Alistair's antsy advice nor Morrigan's annoyed reassurance could prepare Beatrice for what she found when she approached the abandoned, dilapidated temple in the forest: a god tending to a garden that should've overgrown a long time ago.

"I would point out that you came in without knocking, but the main door fell off, I think, almost two hundred years ago, so make yourself at home."

Now, it wasn't like Beatrice Cousland had met hundreds of deities in her lifetime - this one was actually her first one -, so it's not like she knew exactly how to recognize a deity.

She just… felt it as soon as she saw him.

Just like, upon watching down from a precipice, she would have felt the risk of its height.

Though he didn't seem dangerous.

Silrel, God of Truths and Tricks, looked up at her from his crouched position in front of a batch of snowdrops, a big smile and a lock of hair as black as ink falling on his face and over his eyes…

His impossibly deep, black eyes.

Beatrice instinctively took a step back and his smile didn't falter for a second.

"You're wary of me, Beatrice Cousland. Why?"

And he apparently knew her name, too.

<<A god who values honesty above everything else.>>

Morrigan's words resonated in her head. Bless her for her advice, even though if there was something she never had a problem with, that was being honest.

So the warrior straightened her posture, her gray eyes looking straight back inside those unfathomable black orbs.

"Because I heard the tales about you. Because my friends warned me about coming to you. Because I don't know if you will answer my question."

She was pretty sure she never stopped looking at him, she was pretty sure she hadn't even blinked, yet she didn't see him moving to stand up and yet there he was, still with the same wide smile on his face.

"Well, then ask. Or you'll never know."

… Well, that was easier than she thought.

Bless Morrigan for real.

"... Who was it that attacked Highever? Who killed my mother and father and my brother's wife and son?"

There was no smile anymore on the god's face.

He was now looking at her with the grave face of a bearer of the worst news you could ever hear in your life.

He probably would have made exactly that face to tell her teyrn Bryce and teyrna Eleanor Cousland, her parents, were dead, had he been the messenger tasked to tell her.

"This is a truth you should know, but that you could never walk away from. Do you still want it?"

It was exactly what she feared: for even a god to hesitate telling her the truth, it must have been a truth she would have hoped to never hear.

But her mother and father were dead, Oriana and Oren were dead and, even if she ever found out Fergus was still alive, she was willing to bet her brother would've wished to be dead.

So, she was the last of the Couslands.

"Yes, I still want the truth."

"... Then, allow me."

This time, she saw him moving, closing the distance between them and reaching up for her face, stopping only to wait for her approving nod before taking her face between his hands, his touch as soft as the caress of a feather.

"Look in my eyes. See the truth that you're looking for."

And suddenly she was back at that night.

Fire was licking at her heels as she followed Duncan down the hallway, the stone roof, walls and ground being engulfed as they ran away, ran toward the door at the end of it.

She could hear the cracking and heat of the flames and her eyes were still filled with the image of Oriana and Oren's corpses: who did it? Who could have done this?

"Here, hurry!!!"

Duncan opened the door for her and she rushed through… and stopped dead in her tracks.

Bryce and Eleanor were laying side by side, a pool of blood growing ever larger under them, their eyes unseeing but their heads turned up, like looking at the man whose boot just kicked away the dagger used to kill them and whose hand was holding the torch all the fire originated from.

And that man was their friend, Rendon Howe.

<<Traitor.>>

The fire was now burning in the eyes of the god, any semblance of gentleness or compassion gone from those impossibly perfect features.

Right, Silrel, God of Truths and Tricks, hated traitos more than anything else in the world.

And now that she should have been afraid, now that she was trapped under the gaze of an enraged deity, Beatrice found that there was no place for fear in her heart.

Maybe because in those two circular hells she could see her own rage staring back at her.

<<Betrayed soul orphaned and stripped by greed and envy.>>

His voice resonated right in her head while his lips, now so close to her own as he trapped her in his gaze, didn't move.

<<Tell me: do you accept my boon?>>

She had no idea what kind of boon he was talking about.

By all accounts, she shouldn't have accepted it.

Offers from furious gods should never be blindly accepted, or accepted at all.

But this was still a god.

A god that now wanted Rendon Howe dead.

His kiss tasted like the tears she was crying as she fell in his embrace, sealing their pact.

#zevranholics oc kiss week #silrel trevelyan #beatrice cousland #dragon age

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high-dragon-bait · 2 years ago

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Amazing Devil Lyrics That Remind Me of My Favorite Dragon Age Characters

Just how niche can this blog get? I don’t have explanations for some of these. Let’s go

The Warden

By day, oh Lord, three things I pray, that I might understand as best I can how bold I was, could be, will be, still am, by God, still am

"If I don't make it back from where I've gone just know I loved you all along"

I stare at the soldiers before me. All my blossoms that have waited to rise

These lines aren’t wrinkles dear heart, they’re just dollops of paint on a new work of art

“You're better than this!” He says as a hand slaps my face

And as I walk away I know, I've been through the wars but that creaking you hear in my bones, it's not pain, it's applause

Hawke

Hey darling hey. Hey darling hey. I’m the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say.

'Cause I've been here so many times before. Don't you think I look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor?

"You alright?" asked the boys from beyond. "You gave us such a fright. We'd hate to see your mascara drip into your pint"

But like rubbing wine stains into rugs it's my curse to try and make it right, but by trying make it worse

I'm the touch you crave, I'm the plans that you made. But fuck all your plans, I'm bored!

Tear me up and burn me up and rip me up and leave your hand on the wall as you go. Blood's pouring like Martini. Graffiti sweet bikini. Is that what you think of me now? No no no no

You said, "I love you less than when it all began.” And I said fewer 'cause I make jokes to show how broken I really am

I’m not trapped with you, you see, you’re the one who’s trapped with me.

The Inquisitor

My dress is on fire and I hurl myself, I heal myself, I drag myself like a rug in the rain. And my saint, she is dancing, and every step I choose to take begins to set the world aflame

"Hold the hand of the god-child," they said, "as he falls from the sky"

And what you hear is not silence, it's just the trees waiting to hear what next you'll hum. And what you see is not the dark it's just the gods upturning ink pots 'cause they know what you'll become

You are in the earth of me. You are in the earth of me. My head's not yours it's mine, and I'll take my fucking time

'Cause you, you touch, my skin peels off like paint. But beneath all of our panting, there's this noise I cannot shake. Well, can't you hear that scratching? There's something at the door

'Cause if we join our hands in prayer enough to God, I imagine it all starts to sound like applause

'Cause we'll dance together so close we're sharing breath. But now I'm leading, doesn't that just scare you to death?

Alistair

And the soldiers march behind me, I can hear them beat their spears. And for the first time in all my life I know I'm more than what I fear

Does my hair look as nice as it did when it once tangled up in your eyes?

The person that fifteen year old me would be proud to have known!

All it took to unearth in the dust and the dirt some release or respite from the heat and the hurt, was taking the time now and then to ask how I am

Morrigan

With a hoik of her bra, she waved to the bar, and slipped into the night

“Come devil come,” she says “Call out my name.”

You make the bed up silent on the floor, so no one will hear us. You try so loud to love me, I cannot seem to hear

Think of all the horrors that I promised you I'd bring

Witness me, old man, I am the wild

Cause I’m more than what my mum told me to be

I make shipwrecks out of my dress and the door below, it splinters, and the creature creeps inside

Leliana

Do you like my dress? It has pockets.

This here is not make-up, it's a porcelain tomb. And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune.

And to those gods, I will speak bluntly "We've an accord, if you ever touch or harm him" Please rest assured that you might not fear a man but to a woman, by the end, you'll kneel and plea

I’m the paper cut that kills you! I’m the priest that you ignored!

We were gods, “we were kids”

Cause brick by brick you built us, and I’d fill in the cracks. Nothing quite prepares you for when they don’t come back

Fenris

I drink that nice wine you were saving, it’s saving me now, love.

And we fall into each other! The scratching grows so loud! Because that unwanted animal wants nothing more than to get out

You're brave because they broke you, yet broken still you breathe. So breathe, breathe, just breathe

These plates they smash like waves, and these wine stains hide the tears

I've got knuckle burn from typing all these lines into your chest!

Oh, and you rip my ribcage open and devour what's truly yours. And our screaming joins in unison, I cry out to the Lord

Anders

You do not get to hurt me just because I asked you once if you were alright!

You angel-heart, you monster, oh some godforsaken Prospero. Your feathers and your paws. Your hell for leather applause

With you I could summon the gods and the stars

I wish I'd done things different, I wish that I'd been brave. I wish I'd known these stones were something I could save

Varric

And I pack what is needed for the journey to come. All my books, all my bracken and booze. And the door shuts behind me and I breathe in the air and say, "Yeah, well I'm sorry too"

You dance on tables, endless labels. Are you Cain? ‘Cause I'm not Abel. Your bastard lasting night bus asking “What's the everlasting fable?”

“Sleep now,” oh, she says. “Tomorrow's jokes have yet to be laughed at or said”

I won’t let you turn our last night into this! Gonna binge watch a box-set, drink wine, reminisce

Solas

GIVE ME BACK MY HEART YOU WINGLESS THING

Our gods have abandoned us, left us instead. Take up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead

Are you god or devil, ghost disheveled? Childhood friend or drunken revel? I cannot stop, I'm bleeding out for you

I'm the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shunned. All those letters unsent and that garden ungrown. I'm the captain of courage that you've eternally lacked. I'm the Jesus of wishing to Christ he'll come back

You are that space that's in between every page, every chord and every screen. You are the driftwood and the rift. You're the words that I promise I don't mean

"Be good to me," I whisper. And you say, "What?" and I say, "Nothing, dear"

'Cause I when I stand oh those folks will run, and tell the tales of what I've become. They'll speak of me, oh in whispered tones, and say my name like it shakes their bones

"Be good to me," I beg of him, "Be good to me," I beg of him. Be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good. And he replies, "No, no, not I"

Cole

I'm the tales that the guests will applaud and believe. I'm the child that you just didn't have time to conceive

And when the rain came down I made a vow out to the dark "Please, let her live just one more day" 'Cause she is so much more than all her scars

Cause that sun that beams down as my hands touch the grass. After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last!

Oh, what? These, these aren't tears. It's just the rain that wasn't brave enough to fall

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age 2 #dragon age: origins #dragon age: inquisition #I could've kept going but. I had to stop eventually #the amazing devil #how many people are actually gonna get this i wonder. let's fine out

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mrs-theirin · 3 years ago

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gone.

ship: hawke x varric wc: 756 rating: g notes: strap in boys. i’m so sorry [AO3 link]

Varric hated the color green.

Reminded him of muck, of vomit, of mold spreading on the bottom of his tub.

At least, that’s what he’d tell himself. Green was an ugly color. No matter what shade, no matter where it was, green was an ugly color. When proposing what they should wear to Halamshiral, Varric denied green from ever being on the table. When walking around the battlements of Skyhold, Varric tore into the dark green vines twisting up the side of the stone, ripping up the leaves with vicious enthusiasm. When the Inquisitor began to flaunt their glowing hand, Varric looked away.

Missions became impossible, because green was everywhere.

Green in the trees of the Hinterlands. Green in the fabric of Orlesians. Green in the gems exchanged for sovereigns.

Green in the crackling Fade rifts.

Varric wondered.

He wondered what it was like for a demon, to realize they had a way out, that the tiniest crack in their prison meant a possible escape, only to be thrown back in by an ordinary person with ancient magic creeping up their arm. To be so sure you could be free only to have that dream slammed in your face.

He wondered if that’s how Hawke felt.

Could she see the rifts? he wondered. Was there ever a time where a rift opened nearby, only to close moments later? Was there ever a time where she stood at a rift for far too long, trying to decipher if she could manipulate it to let her out, if she could escape the same way the demons could? Or had she given up?

Had she died?

Varric shut his eyes, heavy eyes and a heavy heart dragging him down. Something wet covered his hands, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. When he opened his eyes again, he discovered his ink had spilled, the black liquid seeping through the parchment he had been writing on.

Gone, was the only word visible to him now, and even that was quickly tarnished by the tears that fell, splashing onto the parchment and causing the ink to retract. Varric’s hand shook as he raised it to his mouth, biting down on his skin to muffle his cries. Salt and a faint taste of ink covered his tongue, filling his mouth with a bitter, unpleasant taste.

“Oh, relax,” she’d say, draping herself over his desk so she was directly below him, staring up at him with those bright blue eyes he loved so much. “I’m fine! Not even the Fade could take me down, you know that! Whatever happened to me being a goddess of flame, huh? Now get up, I need you to help me get this ink out of my hair.”

“No need,” he would say, brushing his fingers gently across her scalp. “You can’t even tell. It blends in with your black void of hair.”

“Ha, ha. What would you know, salt-and-pepper hair? I see a little grey in there.”

“It’s from the stress of saving your ass all the time, Hawke.”

“But you didn’t save me this time, did you?”

Varric stood abruptly, his knees colliding with his table, sending the inkwell crashing to the floor, the sound of shattering glass slicing through the quiet.

No one understood. No one.

No one understood as Varric stared blankly at the spot where the Fade rift had been, his heart sinking to his stomach. No one understood as they celebrated the return of Alistair, clutching onto him tight, sharing words of praise. No one understood as the Inquisitor made their way to Varric’s side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder before moving away.

Hawke was gone.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known from the moment they had realized they were in the Fade. He had seen her contemplation, her hesitation, her determination. He had seen the way she fought, the way she glared up at the Nightmare demon, as if her glare was a weapon itself, as if she could stare it down and it would run away crying for its mother.

He should’ve known when she grabbed him and shoved him through the rift.

It wasn’t before giving him the kiss of his life, a kiss he hadn’t known at the time would be his last. Their last. He could still feel it on his lips, the gentle passion, the desperation, the goodbye. She had been saying goodbye, and he was too stupid to realize it.

Not until it was too late.

Varric hated the color green.

#long post #sorry sorry sorry sorry #hawke #female hawke #varric #varric tethras #hawke x varric #varric x hawke #angst #here lies the abyss #dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age inquisition #da #da2 #dai #quill's writing #fic #fanfic

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phykios · 3 years ago

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honesty and promise me, co-written with @darkmagyk [read on ao3]

Update: Annabeth has not done what needs to be done.

August moves over into September, hot and sweltering days giving way to the first few hints of the coming autumn chill. One unseasonably cold night, Annabeth had gone to bed wrapped in one of Percy’s old Paris Opera sweaters, waking up with it and wearing it home to ward off the chill of the morning drizzle, like some a normal girlfriend would.

It’s a problem, she knows, but she just cannot quit this man.

And boy did she try, about a hundred different times.

One time, she spent an entire Tuesday before seeing him googling around until she found a picture. It was three years old, and it showed Mittie--oh, sorry, Her Royal Highness Margherita--at a soccer game in Moscow. Next to her is the handsomest man in the world. Percy’s hair is shorter, and something about his windbreaker reminds her of some of the crew boys she knew at Harvard. They aren’t touching, but they are both smiling. This is the kind of girl Percy deserves. This is the kind of girl he should want. His type. She reminds herself of it for hours before meeting him at a show. But the smile he gives her is nothing like the one in the pictures with the princess. And when he whispers what he wants to do to her that evening, she just can’t do it.

She even took him to his favorite pizza place once to soften the blow. But then she thought about how her dumping him would forever taint the magic of Antonio’s for the both of them, and she just couldn’t abide that.

So she kept putting it off. And putting it off. And putting it off.

And then he asked her to dinner with his parents again, on his one night off in three weeks.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to bring you something?” he asks for the fourth time, concern making his connection thin and tinny.

“It’s just a little stomach thing,” she lies, shaking out a ramen flavor packet. “I’ll be fine. You go have fun with your mom.”

“Okay. I’ll call later to check up on you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m just going to be asleep.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Yeah.”

He clicks off. Her apartment is very quiet. For lack of anything else to do, she decides to check her mail.

Who even mails anything anymore, she thinks.

Rifling through the pile of wasted paper, she sighs at the banality of it all. Junk, junk, junk, NYCB brochure she needs to cancel, junk… Harvard?

She peers at it.

The red seal is unmistakable, as is her name, printed in neat, black ink. “Ms. Annabeth Chase.” Why are they contacting her? And more importantly, who the fuck gave them her address?

Hands shaking, she unfolds it. “Dear Ms. Chase,” it reads, “Thank you for your generous contribution to the Harvard Graduate School of Design. As one of our most promising graduates, we are so pleased and thrilled to receive your encouragement. With your gift, we were able to reach our fundraising goal of $2.5million, which will go to support the various operations of the school, so that we can continue to provide a top-notch education for your fellow students. You do make a difference for us, and we are immensely thankful for you!” And then it goes on. “As a thank you for your generous gift of $15,000, we would like to invite you to the Alistair Moore dinner for distinguished graduates and faculty. We would be delighted to receive you at...”

She can’t finish, dyslexia scrambling the words in front of her. Or maybe that’s just her, trembling so hard she has to sit down. Fifteen thousand. The Alistair Moore dinner. She knows it well, yet another fancy networking event, like the Eta Industries party. Bile rises in her throat. Who would…

The answer hits her like a freight train. Only one person would be so bold.

Crumpling the letter in her fist, she pulls out her phone, dialing the number she still stubbornly has memorized, despite deleting it off her contacts list.

She isn’t sure if she’s upset that she gets his voicemail, or relieved. “Hey, dad. It’s me,” she says, grimacing as she starts off like he wouldn’t recognize her voice. Like it’s any other phone call. “I got your message. The Alistair Moore dinner? I’m not going. I told you, I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. What I need,” she sneers, “is for you to butt out and leave me the hell alone.”

Then she hangs up, before she can chicken out and delete it.

She shoves the letter into her recycling bin, down to the very bottom. Out of sight and out of mind.

Well, her night is pretty much ruined.

Ramen growing colder, she lies on her couch, her head hanging over the edge, studiously not looking at her phone. She shouldn’t have left that message. She shouldn’t have opened that letter. She shouldn’t have rebuffed Percy’s invitation. Or maybe she was right, in all those situations. Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. Her leg bounces, frantic, stomach roiling.

Like a gunshot, her phone vibrates on her coffee table. Annabeth catapults herself up, reaching for it, nearly dropping it, even as her eyes begin to blur. Please let it be her dad. Please let it be anyone else but her dad. Please. Please. Please.

checking in, writes Percy. feeling any better?

With a sob, she hits call. He picks up after the second ring.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “Everything okay?”

“Can,” she hiccups. God damn it. God damn her. “Can you please come over?”

She can feel his demeanor change over the phone. “I’ll be right there,” he says, calm and collected. “What’s your address?”

Her address is supposed to be a secret. No one is supposed to know where she lives. She doesn’t even like Luke knowing where she lives, and he might be the closest thing she has to family right now. But she tells Percy, and he promises to be there within thirty minutes. Throwing her arms over her face, she lies back down, breathing through her nose so she doesn’t vomit.

He makes it in twenty. here is the simple text, devoid of any hearts or emojis, and she buzzes him up. Less than a minute later, he knocks on her door. “It’s open,” she calls, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Softly, the door clicks open, someone smoothly and quietly stepping inside. “Annabeth?”

“Here,” she moans. She should get up to greet him. She can’t feel her legs. She can’t feel anything at all.

The couch dips as someone sits next to her, a warm, large hand on her shoulder, and she can’t help but open her eyes. Percy is there in his blue sweater that she returned the last time she had slept over at Nico’s apartment, his brow furrowed in worry, but he’s smiling a little, too, just happy to see her, to see that she’s safe. In his other hand, he holds up a plastic bag. “I brought you a cookie,” he says, gently. “Chocolate chip.”

Annabeth blinks. “It’s… blue.”

He nods. “It is.”

Blue cookies. His mom’s special recipe, he had told her, for bad days of aching feet, harsh dance instructors, and school bullies.

The dam breaks.

She launches herself into Percy’s embrace, sobbing. He tucks her head into his neck, his arms coming up around her. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“I’m--I’m so sorry,” she gets out, in between heaving breaths. “I just--I didn’t want to be alone and--”

He shakes his head against hers, his nose in her hair. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

They sit there for a long, long time, him holding her as she cries, pathetic. She can only imagine what it must be like from Percy’s end: here he was, having a lovely dinner with his mother uptown on his night off, only to get a frantic call from his hookup, demanding that he drop everything and rush to her side. And he did. He even fucking brought her one of his mom’s special cookies.

She does not deserve this perfect, amazing man.

It’s that thought more than anything else that pulls her out of her spiral, her sobs abating somewhat. “There we go,” he says, sweetly. “I’m going to get you some water, okay? Be right back.”

Resisting the urge to hold onto his sleeve like some kind of child, she lets him pull away, stepping into her kitchen. Head aching and eyes puffy, she can’t even really register the fact that he is in her apartment right now. Her secret hideaway. Her sanctum sanctorum. He can see her tasteful couches and her expensive coffee maker and her giant TV screen.

But honestly? She doesn’t care about any of that right now. All she cares about is the long, solid line of Percy’s body next to hers as he sits back down next to her, handing her a glass of water. She drinks it down, greedily, falling back against him, his hand automatically coming up to her shoulder, and she turns into his side, drinking him in, just as desperate.

They don’t speak, just holding onto each other.

As she drifts off, there on her couch, her arm around Percy’s midsection, she only has one real thought in her head.

Forget the apartment--this is her sanctum sanctorum. This is her safe space.

***

Annabeth wakes up in a bed that isn’t her own, in an apartment that isn’t her own.

It reminds her, weirdly enough of her mom’s apartment, she thinks as she sits up in the soft, cream sheets, here in New York. She had only ever been a handful of times, whenever her mother deigned to claim her for their allotted family time. She doesn’t remember much about that place--mostly the skyline through the window, the low, uncomfortable furniture, the spotless, empty kitchen.

Across from the bed is a mirror, squat and wide. Annabeth has her hair back, her face devoid of metal. She looks tired, she thinks, and maybe a little older, dark, heavy bags beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a real, actual set of pajamas, rather than a sweater or an oversized shirt, pale pink silk tight around her body.

Shaking her head, she looks down, and spies a thin band of gold on her left hand, which rests on her stomach, sporting a slight, but noticeable curve.

Only then does she realize it’s a dream. She lets out a grateful sigh. Just a dream.

It seems like a pretty boring one, too. She’s older, a little fatter, and has a nicer apartment. Somewhere in the distance is the indistinct sound of a person singing. And beyond that the even more indistinct sound of the city.

Stumbling out of bed, her feet falling into a pair of soft, pink slippers, perfectly positioned next to her bed, she makes her way out into the apartment. The walls are cream, decorated with generic seaside landscapes, a nondescript sailboat in the background against an unchanging, cornflower blue sky.

The kitchen is empty. Breakfast is cooked, laid out on a placemat at the kitchen island, but no one is there eating it. No one is there cleaning up, or making coffee. The food looks delicious, like a magazine spread: a perfectly made bowl of granola and yogurt, a lemon poppyseed muffin, a glass of orange juice on the side. Nutritious. Small.

It’s weird. It’s really weird.

Moving on, she enters the living room. There’s a little girl on her knees, maybe three or four, she’s wearing a red pinafore over a white polo shirt and Mary Janes shined like the top of the Chrysler building. The preschool version of a prep-school uniform. She’s hunched over the glass coffee table, frizzy blonde curls bouncing as she moves her hand back and forth, scribbling with a colored pencil on a piece of paper.

All of a sudden, she notices Annabeth standing there.

“Mommy!” She jumps up, holding the pencil behind her back, her green eyes wide with apprehension. “I--I was--”

She hears whistling, and turns to see… well, it's Percy, but he looks nothing like her Percy. His hair is cropped shorter, parted and moussed perfectly flat. He’s in a three piece suit. He’s in trousers. Not a pair of sweatpants or a muscle tee in sight.

He stops when he sees her. “Sorry, didn’t know you were awake, wouldn’t have been singing.” Which makes no sense, Because Annabeth loves Percy’s ambient music. He looks around her, speaking to his--to the girl, “I told you you’d have to stop when mommy got up.”

Annabeth glances at the little girl, who nods too solemnly.

“Don’t worry,” this stranger wearing Percy’s face says, “She’s ready for school. She is ready for her Math qualification. I only said she could draw for a little, to calm herself down.” He glances at the girl again. “Put your things back in the art box, and we’ll go to school. I have an 8:30 meeting with the board.”

The little girl runs off. Holding her paper and her pencils close to her chest, like she’s afraid someone is going to take them away from her. Maybe someone is.

Percy turns to her. “I confirmed our reservations at 7 tonight at Sarabeth’s with your mother’s assistant this morning. And the nanny is going to stay late, so we don’t have to bring her.”

The her in question reappears just then. She’s so small. And she’s carrying a backpack. She looks like that breakfast, out of a magazine. But normally kids in magazines smile.

“Are you ready?” Annabeth’s voice finally says.

A beat, then she nods again. “Yes, mommy.”

“Good,” she says. Outside, the sunlight through the windows isn’t so bright anymore, but dark and cold, like a solar eclipse. “Make me proud.”

And she turns to go back to bed, but the floor has disappeared, and she steps on nothing, tumbling down into the void.

With a start, she wakes up again in her bed, to the smell of breakfast in the air. Which is confusing, because she’s pretty sure she fell asleep on the couch, and she usually doesn’t wake up in time for breakfast, let alone actually make it herself: she has Percy for that, now.

Right. Percy.

It comes back to her in flashes: the donation, the voicemail, calling Percy out of desperation. Inviting him into her room, her bed. Falling asleep in his arms.

She physically shakes her head, roughly scrubbing her face, forcing herself further into consciousness. The light coming through her window is grey and weak, doing absolutely nothing to help her out. The morning feels muted, for some reason, like it’s very far away. Maybe it was her nightmare.

She can’t hear Percy, Annabeth realizes. That’s what’s wrong. She can smell breakfast, but she can’t hear him puttering away. She doesn’t hear the clanking of pans as he tries to be quiet, or his off-key humming, or the dull thump of footfalls on her floor as he practices his steps.

God, how late did she sleep? If he has to leave for a morning class he usually makes sure to wake her up, first. For a kiss if nothing else.

But when she pads out to her kitchen, she’s stunned to find Percy still there, sitting at her warped kitchen table. There are two plates in front of him, eggs and bacon untouched and cooling. He’s fully dressed, too, in his dark jeans and stupid dance pun t-shirt: “Girls Just Wanna Have Buns,” his sweater on the empty chair. Annabeth had been weirdly looking forward to wearing that this morning; he likes seeing her in his clothes, and she likes seeing him without them. It’s a system that works for them, typically leading to a lot of smiles, a couple giggles, and maybe another round or two before he has to leave.

He’s not smiling now. His gaze is fixed on his plate, hands in his lap. “Morning,” she croaks, softly.

Percy lifts his eyes to her, unfathomable like the sea. “Morning.”

Something in her stops her from sliding into the seat across from him. Standing gives her strength, gives her power that she doesn’t want to give up. She may not be able to tell what Percy is thinking right now, but she knows when someone is gearing up for a fight. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“What’s the matter?”

He is uncharacteristically still. Annabeth has gotten so used to him expressing himself via his body, the stillness is unsettling. Percy holds her gaze for a moment, then sucks in a breath, sitting up a little bit straighter. “I kicked over your recycling by mistake, and when I was cleaning up, I…” He bites his lip, a little ashamed. “I accidentally read some of your mail.”

“Okay.” He can’t be that broken up about her junk mail, can he?

It’s only then that she sees it, laid out neatly next to the breakfast plate. The letter has been carefully uncrumpled, but the red Harvard seal is as obnoxiously bright as ever. “I don’t mean to pry, but…” Percy licks his lips, gathering his words together. “I thought you didn’t get into Harvard?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“It’s just--this is from the Graduate School of Design,” he continues, looking at the page as if to confirm it. “And the dean says you were one of their ‘most promising graduates,’ here, so. That means you have, what, a master’s degree? Right?”

Still, she doesn’t say anything.

Percy rubs a hand over his mouth, square jaw squaring further. “I guess I just don’t understand why you lied to me.”

“I never--” she blurts.

“I mean, were you trying to spare my New Yorker sensibilities by telling me you didn’t get in? Did you think I would actually care?”

There’s nothing she can say in response. So she doesn’t.

After a moment, he blows out a sharp breath. “So. Fifteen thousand dollars, huh.”

She sighs, looking away. It’s not like Annabeth doesn’t hate it, too. “I didn’t do that,” she says, crossing her arms. “My dad did it, he just put it under my name.”

“And, he did that… why? I mean,” he tilts his head, a little bewildered. “I thought you guys weren’t on speaking terms.”

“To try and get me to network again, probably.” She shrugs. “And I’m not on speaking terms with him. He just hasn’t gotten the memo yet.”

He hasn’t raised his voice at all. He hasn’t moved from his seat, or made any kind of threatening gesture, but like an approaching storm cloud, she can feel the anger rolling in, dense and crackling. “Does he do this a lot, your dad? Throw his money around for you?”

“It’s not like I asked him to.”

But he’s shaking his head, rueful. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. You know, I thought it was weird that you could afford an apartment in the East Village with a bedroom on periodic architecture contracts, but I’m guessing he pays for that, too?”

He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t stop her from bristling. “It’s a trust fund,” she snaps. “It’s still my money.”

“A trust fund,” he says, softly. “Right.”

Anger lances through her, cold and burning. Just because her dad had set it up for her didn’t mean that she wouldn’t use it. “Yeah, a trust fund. Is that a crime, now?”

He opens his mouth as if to say something, then snaps it shut with an audible click. Pushing his chair out, he stands up, hands flat on the table. “I should go and get ready for my class. I’ll… I’ll text you later, okay?” Percy takes a step towards her, hands reaching for her on instinct, then pauses. “See you around.”

Percy leaves without so much as a look back, closing the door so quietly she can barely hear it over the roar of blood in her ears.

#my fic #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #😈😈😈#darkmagyk #happy endings onlyyyyyyyy #percabeth fic #PJO

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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

Text

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — Two: Truth

Author's note: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Warnings: allusions to sex, mention of trauma

Word count: 4,400>

Masterlist

Previous - Chapter Two - Next

"Can I help you?" you jumped when you felt a tap on your shoulder. You spun around on your heel, diverting your attention from the man on the television to the petite blonde girl who was doting a pale pink pant suit. Her blue eyes seemed friendly enough, but her expression of bewilderment and slight disdain was enough to make you uncomfortable. Your lips parted slightly as you tried to gather your words.

"I'm… I'm looking for someone," you said hesitantly. You turned back around to watch the television, pressing the palm of your hand against the screen and watching him with awe. You weren't sure if you were more flabbergasted by this brand new technology, or by the handsome man who was attempting to sell you oil.

"You're going to have to be more specific," the woman placed a hand on her hip and quirked her eyebrow.

"My friend Alistair…" you said slowly before shaking your head and smiling. "Do you know this man?" you pointed at the television.

The blonde woman looked completely and utterly perplexed. "Mr Lord?" she asked. Her mind was racing: everyone knew who her boss was. She pondered for a moment, questioning who exactly you were and where did you come from before shaking her head profusely. "Wait, I’m sorry. Did you just say Alistair?" she pinched the bridge of her nose and began to circle around you, taking in your appearance; judging your native Amazonian outfit and muddy skin.

"Yes, Alistair. We met in the park earlier," you explained. "Please excuse the dirt on my body."

"Mr Lord’s son…?" the lady said, speaking her thoughts out loud. No woman had ever come to Black Gold Cooperative requesting to see Alistair, note even his own mother. "Who are you?"

You smiled politely, taking the lady's hand. "I'm here to help. Where can I find Mr Lord?"

"Do you have an appointment with him?" the lady in pink asked, walking around the main desk and checking the computer. "I'm his secretary by the way. My name is Raquel." she mumbled as she pressed a few keys.

You introduced yourself and shook her hand, admiring her beautifully manicured nails. "An appointment?" you repeated. "No, not really. He doesn’t know I’m coming.”

“Mr Lord is a very busy man,” Raquel sighed, tapping her manicured acrylic nails against the oak wood desk. “He doesn’t do surprise visits.”

“That’s okay, I wish to see Alistair anyway. I must know if he’s okay.” your body was still rife with concern over what you had witnessed happen to the little boy earlier at the playpark, and how he had disappeared.

“There is no way for me to contact Alistair, he’s just a child… but uh, let me see what I can do.” Raquel sighed, knowing she wasn’t easily going to get rid of you anytime soon. “I can give Mr Lord a call and let him know you wish to see him,” she told you, ringing in his phone number. “Can I ask what your business with him is?”

“I’m here to help him,” you repeated with an eager grin.

“Right,” Raquel said slowly as you turned back to the television, admiring the man with the dark blonde hair, sporting the three piece designer suits. “Help him with what?”

You blinked momentarily, watching this Mr Lord drone on and on and on. “Oil.” you practically squeaked out.

“Oil?” Raquel questioned, not believing you for one minute. She had every right inkling to believe you were dangerous, but it was her job to contact Maxwell in this type of situation, no matter what. You squeezed your eyes shut almost sensing her disbelief when you heard her speak again. Her voice had changed completely, high pitched and almost articulated. “Oh, yes, hi! Mr Lord! There is someone here who wishes to see you.”

Thank the Gods he’d picked up the phone before Raquel could quiz you further.

Maxwell had answered from the car phone. He’d just dropped Alistair off at Julianna and Theodore’s home. It was never fun, having to go see his wife. He wanted to be strong, and he certainly wanted to keep his promise to Alisitar, about spending the whole weekend together - but there was too much at stake. He knew that deep down, Alisitair would understand one day. Maxwell cursed himself for messing up so quickly. The phone rang just as Maxwell slid back into the car. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Max huffed a sigh and held the phone to his ear. “Who is it?” Maxwell asked wearily. “If it’s the FBI or the FTC…”

Maxwell was nervous. He was even confused that Raquel was still at Black Gold, still happy to work for him after he did commit what potentially could be classified as war crimes. Maxwell was a realist and he knew that with every action, came a consequence. The world had never been kind to him, and he looked down at the envelope that Theodore had handed to him. His name, Maxwell Lorenzano, was written on the front in Julianna’s perfectly inked calligraphy. Max hated it. He didn’t have his name legally changed fifteen years ago just so his ex wife could throw his old identity back in his face. He hated his real name. It was a constant reminder of his past life. But now he didn’t know what was worse, being a Lord or a Lorenzano. The name Lorenzano had been tainted for him, by his family, and years of bullying. But the name Lord? He’d tainted that himself. A conman. A stupid, messed up loser. Julianna hadn’t wanted to see Maxwell, and instead sent her new boyfriend to collect Alistair from him.

“Julianna wants you to have this,” Theodore said with a frown, taking Alistair’s hand and pulling him away from Maxwell. “When you read through it, give her a call.” was all he said before slamming the front door in Max’s face. Max didn’t know what was inside the envelope, but he knew it couldn’t be good.

“No, it’s not the FBI or the FTC. It’s a woman,” Raquel said hesitantly. “She… she’s a bit odd,” Raquel whispered, but not quiet enough for it to go unnoticed by you. Nevertheless, you pretended to ignore her comment. Perhaps you were odd, and perhaps that was okay. The world of man was not something you were used to. But you were here for a reason. The delay in Maxwell’s response prompted Raquel to say more. “Mr Lord… I don’t think she’s going to leave without seeing you. Would you like me to call the cops?”

“No!” Maxwell practically barked. He turned on the engine of his car and held the phone between his ear and shoulder, reversing out of the driveway. He didn’t know what was going on, it was too early to tell - but Maxwell couldn’t have the police anywhere near Black Gold. There was a good chance the police might be looking for him anyway. There was a good chance Max believed he might even have to go into hiding. “I’m on my way.” Maxwell promised before putting the phone down.

You turned back to Raquel when you heard the phone click back onto the hook. “Well, he’s coming,” she shrugged. “Just take a seat please. He won’t be long.”

You walked over to the centre of the lobby where there was a long circular velveteen sofa with a silver foiled surface. You ran your finger over the material, savouring the soft feeling. It was unlike anything you had ever felt before. You let out a small gasp when you noticed your gladiator sandals had trailed in mud and made a mess of the pristine marble floor. You knew it wouldn’t take much to clean, but you still felt bad.

The lobby of Black Gold Cooperative was large, with pillars similar to what they’d have in the Themysciran palace back home and vases of white roses decorating every corner. You wiped down your skirt and tunic, not wanting to be responsible for any more mess, and sat down on the sofa. You groaned as the velveteen plush engulfed you. You couldn’t help it, Raquel was gone and you were exhausted after spending the day looking for Alistair. You hummed in contentment, unbuckling the leather straps on your shoes and laying down on the sofa, curling up and closing your eyes.

Everything was dull. The sky was grey, dark and rainy clouds casting a cold shadow over your shoulders. This was weird. Normally your dreams would be utter and complete blackness - the inability to see anything, only hear the chaos that surrounded you. Only hear the cries and pleas for help and terror - and his voice. The man you were soughting for. You wondered if upon venturing to the world of man, your premonitions had stopped. But that didn’t make any sense. You were one step closer to finding this mystery man.

In the distance, you saw a group of kids tormenting and teasing another little boy. The image reflected what you had seen earlier at the playpark with Alistair, but it was different children this time. “What are you wearing?” you heard one boy mock as you ran closer. “Look at your shoes! Little Lorenzano can’t even afford new shoes!” a different girl cackled.

Lorenzano. You stopped dead in your footsteps, your eyes widening as you watched the group of kids disband, leaving the little boy with glazed brown eyes and ripped clothes shaking with fear. Lorenzano was the name of the man you were looking for - the man you had to help. Your mother Hestia had helped you learn that, but you had never seen him before. This Lorenzano was just a child. There was no way he could have a son.

You took a deep breath and reached out. “Sweet boy?” you called, taking a cautious step forward. Little Lorenzano didn’t even flinch. “Hello?” you asked again. You got as close as you could to him, walking around in circles and taking in his appearance, but he didn’t even notice you. It was almost like he couldn’t see you.

That’s when you realised you weren’t in a dream. You were in a memory. And suddenly everything made sense. This broken little boy was in fact the same person you were looking for. But now, he was a broken man who was desperately trying to make things right. Desperately trying to turn his life around. You’d seen a fleck of his past and you wondered if he was anything like that now. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you had to find him.

There was no way of telling how long you were asleep for, but when you heard Maxwell Lord’s voice, you couldn’t distinguish it from your dream or reality. It was so familiar, so rich and articulate.

“Jesus Christ,” Maxwell muttered, pacing backwards and forwards before turning back to you and prodding a finger into your bare arm. “Wake up.” he said sternly, his voice a little louder than before. You yawned, bringing your hands up to your eyes and giving them a gentle rub before sitting up and looking at the man.

It was him. The same man you had seen on the television. Only there was something not that right. You couldn’t put your finger on it. You grinned, your eyes gleaming with delight as you stood up and cupped your hands around his face, squeezing his cheeks and getting as close as you could. You touched him and maneuvered his body in different ways, lifting his arms up and brushing down his shoulders. He was broader than any Amazonian woman, and that said a lot. Surprisingly, Maxwell became putty in your grip. He would’ve never have expected it, but he just let you mould him and sculpt him in any which way you pleased. You traced his skin with your fingers, taking in every detail. It was certainly the man from the television - but this version of Maxwell Lord looked more tired and disheveled. His hair wasn’t perfectly styled and he wasn’t fitted into a perfectly pressed suit. But he was still just as remarkable and there was something about his presence that simply took your breath away.

He could say the same about you, too. He was completely stunned by you. Your beauty was incomparable to anyone else he’d ever seen. You almost looked out of this world. He was quick to shrug off his fascination with you, boiling it down to the fact you were covered in dirt and dressed in the strangest costume. He had more important things to worry about… like Alistair and whatever was in that damn envelope Theodore had given him.

“You’re a man,” you whispered in disbelief.

“I- what?” Maxwell asked, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“A real man,” you gasped, running your fingers through his dark blonde hair. Maxwell had to push back a longing groan, as your touch went straight to his semi-hard and already throbbing manhood. He gulped, diverting his gaze from your beautiful eyes.

“Do I- do I not look like a real man?” he asked curiously, ignoring the shudder that felt like it was swallowing him whole.

“Themyscrian depictions of man illustrate a strong, tall, muscular fellow who carries a sword and shield,” You explained, biting your lip and placing the palm of your hand over his chest. You could feel his beating heart under your touch and it almost took your breath away. You dragged your hand down to the curve of his tummy and Maxwell felt his cheeks heat up with insecurity. He never let anyone touch him like this. “They were naked too.”

Maxwell practically choked on his own tongue. That comment alone was enough to get him to step back and raise his hands up defensively.

“Well princess, I won’t be getting naked for you anytime soon, that’s for sure.” He chuckled nervously.

You smiled. “Princess? No no, I’m not a princess,” you giggled before introducing yourself. “I’m the goddess of home and hearth.”

Maxwell gulped before bursting into a fit of laughter. He looked around the office lobby, his movements quick and stressed. “Right, where’s the camera?”

“The- the camera?” you asked, confused.

“Is this for TV? Come on, tell me quickly. It’s a practical joke… right? You’re here, in my office, covered in dirt and in the most ridiculous clothes I’ve ever seen. And you say all these weird words like Themysciran - whatever that means, and you’re telling me you’re the goddess of home and… hearth?” he said almost quizzically. “You’re the crazy woman who stole Alistair away from me at the playpark earlier.”

So Raquel was right. He really was Alistair’s father. “Hey!” you frowned at his accusations. You hadn’t lied to him once. “You weren’t where Alistair left you. You disappeared and I was helping him find you!” you shot back, feeling an anger bubble inside of you.

“I don’t know where you come from princess, but here in America, you don’t just go round stealing people’s kids. That’s like, a federal offence.” Maxwell shouted, wiggling his finger in the air. “Jesus, where do you come from?”

You defensively crossed your arms over your chest, his yelling making you feel vulnerable. You could tell that he was clearly already under a lot of stress but he had no reason to take it out on you. “Themyscira.” you told him calmly.

He scrunched up his face in disdain. "There it is again. Them-a-what-now?"

"Themyscira." you said, this time making conscious effort to say it slower and clearer.

"With all due respect darling, I've travelled the world. I've been to many different places. I spent my adolescence studying a map of the world and never in my life have I heard of such a place." Maxwell shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not here to prove anything to you, Mr Lord. But I find your attitude towards me to be quite upsetting." you revealed, looking back at the revolving doors you came in. There was a deafening silence that filled the room.

"Why are you here?" Maxwell snapped eventually with a huff. You swallowed as he stalked over to you, his gaze not breaking from you once. There was something primal in his walk. "Why… are you… here?"

He wished he could ignore the distracting erection in his pants. He didn't even know you. You were just a random girl who had come into his office demanding to see him, refusing to leave until he came. You were just a random girl who had got close with him, who had touched his face and dragged your hand down his body. Who… talked about naked men. Truthfully, Maxwell had never been with a woman who was quite like you, but things were starting to make sense for him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he were to just take you up to his private office.

Your throat felt dry and for the first time, you couldn't fathom words. His honeyed brown eyes were now dark and lust blown as he raised his hand to caress your cheek. You didn't even realise the way you subconsciously moved your face further into his hold and a wicked smirk crossed his lips. His hand was large and warm and his touch filled you with a sense of protection you didn't even think you needed. "Oh," Maxwell chuckled darkly. "I know what you want from me."

"You do?" you asked timidly, not even realising the hold he had you under. For a second, you'd forgotten why you were even here. You were so taken in by Max. You were feeling things you had never felt in your life for this man who had been haunting your every thought. He was so close to you, his breath fanned over your skin and you felt a sensation erupt between your legs. His presence was intoxicating, and he could say the same about you.

"But I can't," Maxwell shook his head, his gaze falling to your lips before dropping his hand from your face and taking a step back. He cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly, moving his hand down to his crotch trying to hide his arousal from you. "I… I should go."

There was an immediate feeling of guilt that washed over Maxwell. He'd gained reputation in the past for sleeping with women, namely his assistants and secretaries, and not shown them a slither of affection or care. He was a selfless lover and he could get away with it because he was rich, famous and attractive. But now he was none of those things. When he looked at himself in the mirror before heading to the playpark, his own appearance knocked him sick. The stress wrinkles setting in his forehead, the dark circles around his eyes… and he hadn't showered in a week. His hair was a mess and he couldn't even bring himself to check a whiff of his underarms. He didn't know you, but he sure as hell knew you deserved better than a man like him.

You were bright eyed, polite, and curious about the world around you. Not only that, you had demanded to see Maxwell just because you wished to check on his son and make sure he was okay. You had gotten very close to Max and not said a word about his bad hygiene or his tired eyes, instead, you looked at him with hope and admiration. Almost as if you believed that he could become a better man.

"Wait!" you called, reaching your hand out before Maxwell could walk away. "I'm sorry if- I'm sorry if this wasn't a good conversation for you. I've never spoken to a man before."

Maxwell titled his head and quirked an eyebrow. "You intrigue me," he admitted, pursing his lips slightly. His gaze fell from your face to the circle of rope attached to your belt. It didn't take long before he realised what it was— but no, it couldn't be. "What is that?" Maxwell asked, pointing at the rope as fear dripped from his tongue. He even took a few steps back.

You unravelled the rope and held it out for him to see. "This is the lasso of Hestia, it was my mother's. She gave it to me before I left for the world of man. Only two were made and this— this is the last one," you smiled a tearful smile at the memory of your mother. Diana had taken the other lasso, as well as the sword of Athena, back in 1918. "My mother Hestia is the goddess of Truth. And the lasso of Hestia compels any individual it uses to see the truth, or speak it," There was no telling what the expression on Maxwell's face showed. You frowned. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

The lasso had initiated a trauma response in Maxwell as you turned it on. He watched it glow yellow, the same yellow that Diana's lasso had glowed when she wrapped it around his ankle in the island bunker. He remembered her words; "See the truth." and his heart sank into the depths of his chest. That's when he saw Alistair.

Maxwell had always thought Diana Prince was strange. Ever since she told him she didn't own a TV— because who in the 1980s didn't own a TV? And who would deny a free 19 inch TV from Sears? But when she had followed him to Cairo with her pilot boyfriend and caused nothing but chaos in her red, blue and gold superhero outfit, he knew she was special. That she possessed powers. This was later reaffirmed in The White House, and then in the bunker as Maxwell tried to plot world domination and grant wishes to every citizen.

He looked at you behind all the mud and dirt, and he looked into your eyes. Could it be true? Could you be telling the truth? What if you were like Diana? Would he really want to be around someone like you?

Maxwell took a huff of air and wrapped the lasso around his wrist. You watched him, letting him do so. "Prove it." Max swallowed the lump in his throat that he hadn't even realised was there. You looked at him with hesitancy before nodding your head. If this worked, he has no reason not to believe you. A magical lasso… and it wasn't the first he had seen.

"What do you wish to see?" you asked Maxwell, your voice quiet. You didn't detach your gaze from his eyes once.

"Do you see what I see?" He asked, and you nodded your head in affirmation. Maxwell thought for a second, before remembering you had come all this way to Black Gold Cooperative just to see Alistair. At first, there was something deeply unsettling about it… but your presence made Maxwell feel safe. "Show me my son."

You closed your eyes and Maxwell followed your actions, and it wasn't long before your vision was clouded by the image of Alistair in his bedroom at Julianna and Theodore's house. Sitting at a desk, he was humming a song. Maxwell couldn't help but smile, recognising the song from the video game Alistair played with him earlier in the day. With an array of colourful crayons, he intricately sketched a drawing of a man with messy yellow hair and a tie, holding the hand of a smaller boy with black hair holding a teddy bear. He labelled the drawing ‘me and daddy’.

"Alistair sweetheart," Julianna called, peeking her head through the door that stood slightly ajar. "Dinner is ready," Alistair didn't look up once, continuing to rub pink crayon into his paper. "What are you drawing there?" Julianna asked, slipping into her son's bedroom and peering over his shoulder and the drawing.

"Me and daddy," Alistair mumbled, only half listening. He was too busy concentrating on adding the purple detailing on his daddy's socks.

"Oh sweetie, I told you that maybe, sometime, you could draw yourself and Theodore? You know, since he's your father too. He does so much for you Alistair, he takes you out to the movies, takes you to your piano lessons… he's a good guy," Julianna smiled, ruffling her son's hair. She pressed her finger into the yellow haired stick man wearing purple socks. "He's not a good guy."

Alistair furrowed his eyebrows, dropping the crayon to the paper and turning to face his mother. "My daddy is my hero." Alistair told his mother, his brown eyes wide and full of love.

Julianna didn't say a word. She stiffened up, standing tall and glared at her son's drawing. Her stare was so intense, you wondered if she was about to eject lasers from her eyes and set the paper on fire.

"Go eat your dinner." She finally said coldly, her words dripping with malice before barging out Alistair's bedroom.

The lasso of truth unravelled itself from Maxwell's wrist and you curled it back into your holster, clipping it in place on your belt. You looked up and noticed the tears that were pricking Maxwell's eyes.

"You- you probably shouldn't have seen all of that," Maxwell admitted, his voice croaking slightly as he tried to hold himself back from becoming a sobbing mess. "I'm not a hero."

You reached out and took the hand of the big-name businessman who was standing before you on the verge of tears. His hand was big, cold, and his fingers were calloused. You took him in both of your hands and rubbed soothing circles into his skin, desperately trying to provide him with warmth and comfort. His glazed brown eyes looked up at you with bewilderment as he wondered why you were being so nice to him. He was a monster, he deserved every bad consequence that would be coming for him. And yet, you treat him like a human. Even at the height of his career when he lived in riches and luxury, nobody had treated him with the politeness and love you were currently giving him — and you were a stranger. A stranger who was covered in mud with a magic lasso.

"Maybe you are a hero."

—-—-—

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie

I Believe In Love: @mrschiltoncat @thebloodrobin @bxxbxy @marydjarin @the-feckless-wonder @typicalnerd98 @thwiso @julieteagk @starsandmando @kishie8 @supernaturalcat7 @galaxypox @cocastyle @welcometothepedroverse @galactic-rhi @honestlystop @walkerchick007 @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @criminalmind1927 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @thesadvampire @wonder-jedi @eternallyvenus @way-too-addicted-to-anime @spacedaddydinn

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #ww84

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felassan · 4 years ago

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Dragon Age Library Edition Volume 1 annotations & additional pages/art compilation

Dragon Age Library Edition Volume 1 is a hardcover collection of some pre-existing Dragon Age comics that was released in 2014. It comprises of all issues of The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak and Until We Sleep. In places, it includes additional annotations/commentaries by the illustrators and authors, as well as a few additional pages with additional art. iirc these additional annotations and pages/art aren’t featured or available anywhere else (in the franchise I mean; other people have probably put them online at some point I’m sure).

From what I can see at least, Library Edition Volume 1 is no longer in print, and as such listings for it on resale sites etc are.. price-inflated & prohibitively expensive (~£100+, which I’m sure we can all agree is just not reasonable or accessible to most people). Due to this, I’ve compiled the additional annotations and pages here in this post. Thank you and credit to @artevalentinapaz, who kindly shared the material with me. This post has been made with their permission. The rest of this post is under a cut due to length.

These commentaries are in the context of The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak and Until We Sleep. If you notice any errors or annotations missing, or need anything clarified, just let me know. I think the annotations are in chronological order. In places I elaborated in square brackets to help explain which part of the comics an annotation is referring to. A note before you proceed further: some of the topics referenced in the annotations/additional pages are heavy or uncomfortable. The quotes here are word-for-word transcriptions of dev/creator commentaries, not my personal opinions or phrasings.

(Also, I do recommend always supporting comic creators by purchasing their comics legitimately. I own each issue of these comics having bought other editions of them all legitimately. The reason I put this post together is because this specific Library Edition volume has been discontinued and the consequently-inflated cost is so high, rendering the additional material inaccessible to most.)

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The Silent Grove annotations

Illustrator Chad Hardin: “I used to be an environmental artist for video games, so I built a 3-D model of Antiva City using the program Silo. Many of the buildings are simple cubes, but a few are more detailed. Overall, I spent the better part of a day building it, but I used it again and again throughout The Silent Grove to maintain continuity in the backgrounds.”

Script Writer Alexander Freed: “Even working with David Gaider, it took me several drafts to find Alistair’s voice. His narrative had to convey his humor and self-doubt from Dragon Age: Origins while suggesting a newfound weariness earned during his years on the throne. For readers familiar with the character, he needed to seem like a changed Alistair - but Alistair nonetheless.”

Chad Hardin: “If you read a lot of comics, you might wonder why the majority of the heroes wear skin-tight suits. Well, I can tell you: they are easy and quick to draw. In video games, you build the model once and then animate it, so details don’t slow you down. In comics, everything has to be rendered by hand. Varric and Alistair’s outfits were quite detailed. It took me a long time to get used to them, and even longer to memorize the designs until drawing them was second nature - Varric’s knee armor in particular! Oy vey!”

David Gaider: “One of my favorite scenes in the entire series [when Varric and Isabela are disarming traps and picking locks together while Alistair looks on]. Isabela and Varric, doing what rogues do. I had a suggestion for how to put it together, but Alex managed to make it fit and did a great job with it.”

Chad Hardin: “I never used to keep any of the artwork I created for comics. I would just hand the pages over to my agent to sell. This page [when Alistair, Varric and Isabela are in a tavern together, with hookah in the foreground] I kept for myself. I love the hookah-smoking elves in the second panel and Isabela’s face in the last panel. I rendered the first four chapters of The Silent Grove in grayscale using ink washes, gouache and Copie markers.”

David Gaider: “For a little while, Varric [in these comic stories] was supposed to be Zevran from Dragon Age: Origins, which would have made sense, Zevran being Antivan and all. I know that some fans would have loved to see him, but the dynamics of the group just didn’t work as well. Then a planned cameo later had to be cut for space. Ah well, Zev, another time.”

Alexander Freed: “Isabela at her most dangerous [climbing up the side of the cliff]. This scene - featuring a scantily clad, dripping-wet woman who tends to flaunt her sexuality - could easily have come across as exploitative, but Chad did a lovely drop portraying Isabela as purely focused and deadly.”

Chad Hardin: “Isabela rising out of the water and scaling the cliff with the knife in her mouth is one of my favorite parts of The Silent Grove. It is one of those moments where the writing really inspired the art. Hats off to Alex and David. This is another page I kept for myself.”

Colorist Michael Atiyeh: “This is one of my favorite Dragon Age pages. Chad is such an amazing artist; I feel very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with him.”

Chad Hardin: “I love that this page [when a guard spots Varric and shouts ‘Intruder!’] made it in uncensored. So many times in comics, I draw something and some stuffy lawyers come out of the woodwork and tell me to tone it down. Dark Horse and BioWare always let me have fun, and this turned out to be one of my favorite pages with Varric and Bianca. Any guesses to which word he is mouthing in the second panel?”

Alexander Freed: “Note the simple decency of Alistair as he gives his cloak, without comment, to Isabela. For all his flaws, he’s genuinely kind at heart - a rare enough trait in Isabela’s world that I think it’s much of what she values in him.”

Chad Hardin: “I love the opening panel to this chapter [the opening panels to Chapter 3, when the team are on a ship at sea]. It’s the image I use on the homepage of my website. This page was a gift to my cousin Wendy, who loves pirates. Seascapes with sailing ships might be clichéd in fine art, but for me it was a first.”

David Gaider: “I wanted to have this story center on the group travelling to a Witch of the Wilds other than Flemeth, and originally I had set it somewhere else - until I remembered a Codex entry from Dragon: Age Origins that offhandedly mentioned a witch in the Tellari Swamps. Brilliant! It’d look like I planned it all along. I didn’t.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love opportunities where I can show a change in the time of day as you move from panel to panel [when the ship heads towards and the team arrive in the Tellari Swamps]. I feel the palette of each panel is very distinct and beautiful.”

Alexander Freed: “Why did Alistair choose two people he barely knows to be his companions on this quest? We never make this explicit, but of course Varric is on the right track. Alistair wants to surround himself with people who don’t know him and won’t judge him, yet it’s Alistair’s idealism that Isabela and Varric work to preserve.”

Chad Hardin: “Another page where the writing inspired the art [when the group suddenly encounter a dragon]. I love the dragon bursting onto the scene and Isabela’s stare. Some writers will try to cram six or seven panels on a page like this and the pacing just doesn’t allow the artist to give each moment the right punch. Can you imagine if the first panel was crammed into a single square inch?”

Chad Hardin: “Yavana was one of the only characters that we did no preliminary sketches for. I don’t know how that happened, but thankfully it worked out.”

David Gaider: “I love how Yavana looks like a cross between Flemeth and Morrigan. Flemmigan? She’s totally Chad’s design, and it’s great. Typical for these witches, she never says things straight. In my mind, this Alistair is the one who did the Dark Ritual in Dragon Age: Origins - and I was half-tempted to have him lose his cool in this first scene [opening panels of Chapter 4] with her. Too early, though.”

Alexander Freed: “Through this whole sequence [the page when Varric aims Bianca at Yavana], Yavana is dropping cryptic hints and Alistair is refusing to play along. He’s met Flemeth and Morrigan - he knows Yavana won’t give him a straight answer, and he won’t give her the satisfaction of asking needlessly.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Sometimes it’s the little things on a page that spark my interest. Here [when the team navigate vines and mud to get to the temple], the sunset panel came out great and the mud looks really thick and gooey. It’s fun to focus on these details and make them stand out.”

Chad Hardin: “I hated drawing this scene [when Isabela gets kicked] where Isabela gets the boot to the face. Call me old fashioned, but I was raised to believe that only a coward would ever hit a woman (even a battle-hardened pirate adventurer). I draw at home, and my girls often watch me work in my studio. This was a page I didn’t want them watching me draw. I do like, though, that Isabela gets up, yanks the arrow out, and then soldiers on (and later extracts brutal revenge).”

Michael Atiyeh: “Poor Isabela. It seems I gave her more bruises and black eyes than any of the other characters. [when Isabela is yanking the arrow out]”

Chad Hardin: “It’s always interesting to go back and look at artwork because it reminds me of what was going on in my life at the time. I inked this page [opening panels of Chapter 5] at a ‘draw night’ session at an anime convention in St. George, Utah. I was one of the special guests, but I missed the first day because I was at my grandfather’s funeral in Las Vegas, Nevada. Seeing this page brought back those memories.”

David Gaider: “‘Bianca says hello.’ [quoting the panels being referenced] I adore Varric. I was tempted to have him narrate the entire series [in reference to these three comics], but then again I liked the idea of having each series center on one of the trio’s viewpoints. This book belongs to Alistair, but that doesn’t stop Varric from getting all the best lines.”

Alexander Freed: “Claudio, of course, is not a terribly sympathetic figure. But I wanted to emphasize that he takes this fight as personally as Isabela - he sincerely loved Luis and blames Isabela for the man’s death. I think it’s important to give every character, even the most loathsome, some dignity. [when Isabela and Claudio are fighting]”

Chad Hardin: “Payback! Here is where Isabela extracts her revenge on Claudio [when Isabela stabs Claudio]. I never enjoyed killing off a character so much. I particularly enjoyed putting the look of shock in his eyes. He had it coming. There is something satisfying about killing a ‘made man’.”

Chad Hardin: “Every now and then when drawing comics, I wish I could animate some panels and watch them as a cartoon. It would be great to see this sequence [when Yavana catches Claudio’s soul] in full motion as Yavana snatches Claudio’s soul, makes it reenter his corpse and then extracts information from him until he bursts into flame. It was a very Hellboy-ish moment. I enjoyed the movie that played in my mind while drawing this scene. Hope everyone liked the result.”

Chad Hardin: “As I mentioned on page 17, I rendered the first four chapters in grayscale, which made the black-and-white art look great, but had a neutralizing effect when it came to colors. By the time I drew chapter 4, I had seen the effect it was having and decided to stop using the grayscale so the colors would pop. When I saw this page [when Alistair says to Yavana ‘And we helped you find it’] in print, it confirmed to me that I made the right decision. I honestly feel this art was the best of The Silent Grove.”

Chad Hardin: “I practically painted these pages [when Yavana says ‘It is permitted. Tonight and only tonight’] in thumbnails hoping it would help me choose how to render them in ink. It is so hard trying to figure out how to get a full range of value out of just black and white. There are some artists and inkers that make this look easy. Mark Schultz comes to mind. Michael saved my bacon. Colorists really do so much work when it comes to rendering; this page came out awesome because of him.”

David Gaider: “Here we reveal the existence of Great Dragons (as opposed to High Dragons), and also that Yavana was the source of the return of dragons to Thedas after their departure for so many centuries. But why? There’s the rub, and not even Alistair can trust that she’s telling him the truth.”

David Gaider: “Here’s the controversial scene [Alistair killing Yavana]. I think some fans don’t like that Alistair did this, and have said they consider it out of character. I don’t. From his perspective, Flemeth and her daughters have been toying with the world for reasons that can’t be trusted. They dragged Maric away from his family, from him. One might think his judgement foolish, but considering what Alistair was capable of deciding even back in Dragon Age: Origins, it’s certainly not out of character.”

Chad Hardin: “[same scene as above] This was a controversial page, and there were a lot of people who thought it was out of character for Alistair to kill Yavana (I didn’t see it coming - I mean, you just don’t kill a Witch of the Wild), but here is the thing: this page is Alistair acting as a king. Yavana has been manipulating him, trying to play him like a pawn, and he just can’t allow that. There’s too much at stake, for himself and for his subjects.”

Alexander Freed: “The end? An end, at least [the trio walking off into the distance]. The series needed a note of closure while leading into Those Who Speak (which wouldn’t arrive until many months later). David tweaked the ending in the outline several times, and I did my best to balance resolving Alistair’s emotional journey without resolving the quest. It’s not as clean as I’d have liked, but fortunately, now it’s all in one volume...”

Those Who Speak annotations

Alexander Freed: “Capturing Isabela’s narrative voice was much easier for me than capturing Alistair’s - partly because I’d already written The Silent Grove, and partly because of my own writing proclivities. Rereading now, I wonder if I laid on the (mild) profanity a bit too thick. I’ll leave you to judge.”

David Gaider: “I like the additional detail Alex and Chad put in, letting us see more of Qarinus and more of Isabela’s crew. Alex wanted to give her crew more of a presence, and let her first mate have some face time, so they weren’t just parts of the scenery. Good call on his part.”

David Gaider: “I’m really fond of the formal getups Chad made for the party. Isabela’s actually comes from a concept we didn’t use from the cancelled Dragon Age 2 expansion, if I remember right. And Maevaris came from me asking for ‘someone who looks like Mae West’ - with the wonderful outfit all Chad’s doing.

Chad Hardin: “Maevaris. I love Mae. When David and Dragon Age art director Matthew Goldman spoke to me about designing Mae, they wanted her to be fully female with the exception of her biology. They told me to think ‘Mae West’. Well, when I think of Mae West, I think of her... womanly shape. So, drawing Maevaris was always walking a fine line between portraying Mae’s identity and her biology. The process endeared her to me.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Just like in The Silent Grove, we are introduced to another gentleman from Isabela’s past [when the team meet Lord Devon and Isabela threatens him]. As was the case with Claudio, he will meet his fate at her hands.”

Chad Hardin: “When I was drawing Titus, my kids asked me why I was drawing ‘angry Jesus’ or ‘evil Jesus’. I can’t remember which term they used exactly, but it made me chuckle. I was going for a mix of Rapustin and Joe Stalin, but ‘evil Jesus’ would do.”

David Gaider: “I’m not sure it’s apparent here [when Alistair says ‘I’d really rather not’], but Alistair was supposed to be using one of his Templar powers on Titus (that’s why Titus recognizes what he is on the next page) and disrupting his magic.”

Alexander Freed: “Isabela is witty and charming enough that it can be easy to forget that she’s not, in fact, a nice person. Even after finishing the outline, David was concerned about making her too unsympathetic - but I loved his approach in this series. The dark deeds Isabela commits - this murder included [Isabela killing Lord Devon] - are what make her guilt tangible and no easy matter to overcome.”

Alexander Freed: “I thought the notions of Isabela’s pride in her captaincy and dedication to her crew were some of the most interesting aspects of her character in David’s story. In scenes here [when Isabela is on her ship saying ‘Keep them focused and keep them sober’] and elsewhere, I did my best to emphasize their place at the core of Isabela’s world.”

Chad Hardin: “Most of the time I draw from imagination, but because of the complexity of this page [Qunari trying to board Isabela’s ship] I decided it would work better if I had photo reference. On this page are my nephews Jared (Varric) and Adam, my niece Melissa, my kids Erica, Tasey Michaela (Isabela) and Chad (Alistair), my friend’s daughter Amy, my wife Joy, and the neighborhood kids as Isabela’s pirate crew. (The crew member mooning the Qunari is out of my ol’ noodle.) I paid their modelling fee in pizza and root beer. Also, I had originally drawn cannons on Isabela’s ship, so if there are parts of it that look slightly wonky, chances are there was a cannon there.”

David Gaider: “Ever since the BioWare artists finally did a concept for female Qunari, I’ve been itching to include one in the game. It’s always slipped through my fingers, so I was going to be damned if I’d have a Qunari plot in a comic - without the same technical limitations - and not have one present.

Chad Hardin: “I had no idea this was the first time anyone outside of BioWare had seen a female Qunari.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I really like the lighting in this sequence [Isabela in her cell thinking ‘I haven’t eaten in days’], especially the strong white light and the characters in shadow.”

David Gaider: “The entire sequence of Rasaan interrogating Isabela was something I plotted out in detail when this series began. Here they discuss names - something treated in a manner peculiar to the Qunari, considering how much importance they apply to what things are called (and not called), because it forms the core of their identity. Isabela brushes it off, but as we find out later it’s also at the core of her identity. I liked that parallel.”

Alexander Freed: “To balance out the relatively static talking pages elsewhere in the issue, I hoped to make the interrogation and flashback sequences beautiful and full of information. I proposed an approach to Chad, and he wisely reshaped it into what you see here [the page with the scene where Isabela says ‘I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes’]. Anything that succeeds on these pages should be credited to him; anything that fails is my fault.”

Chad Hardin: “Probably the most challenging spread I have ever done. My friend Stacie Pitt was the model for Isabela on this page, and my wife Joy was Rasaan. I saved these pages [around the scene when Rasaan says ‘Mistakes can be corrected’] for myself.”

David Gaider: “Sten from Dragon Age: Origins becoming the new Arishok of the Qunari was something we'd planned even during Dragon Age 2. This was a great opportunity to show that, and also to show that Sten didn’t acquire horns even despite the makeover the Qunari received in DA2. Hornless Qunari are considered special, and Sten is no exception.”

Michael Atiyeh: “I think that David, Alex and Chad handled Isabela’s flashback [to when she was sold by her mother] in an interesting way, and it created a nice flow to the story.”

David Gaider: “This was a controversial scene [what happened to the slaves Isabela was transporting], the end result of a lot of discussions between me and Isabela’s original writer on the team, and it went through a lot of revisions over that time. It needed to fit with the story Isabela told the player in DA2, but fill in the blanks of what she didn’t tell. We didn’t want Isabela to be someone who became who she is because she was ‘broken’ but instead as a result of her own actions - yet also not be completely beyond redemption.”

Chad Hardin: “These were hard pages [as above] to draw. It was difficult knowing that events such as this are part of human history, such as the Zong massacre in 1781, where the British courts ordered the insurers to reimburse the crew of the Zong for financial losses caused by throwing slaves overboard when faced with a lack of water. Horrifying beyond words.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Here, Isabela visits here crew, and I wanted to play up that she was in the light and they were in a dark cell. The light streaming through the bars gave me the opportunity to highlight Brand, who also had dialogue in the scene.”

Alexander Freed: “I struggled to find a way for Varric to contribute to victory without distracting from Alistair and Sten’s big fight. I’m happy with the solution: a brazen lie seemed appropriate to the character without taking away from the main show.”

David Gaider: “I believe my original plan had Isabela’s and Alistair’s fight scenes happening separately, but I like how Alex intertwined them in the script and I especially like how this ends up highlighting the differences between their characters when their fights are resolved. Isabela is defiant, revealing her name not because Rasaan demands it but because it’s her choice. In both cases, mercy is strength.”

Michael Atiyeh: “The brush I created for the clouds really gave them a nice watercolor effect here [on the deck of the ship, Sten calling Alistair ‘kadan’]. That brush has become a staple in my toolbox.”

Alexander Freed: “With the strong theme of names running through these issues, I liked the notion that Isabela had outgrown being, well, ‘Isabela’. When her name comes up in Until We Sleep, it’s largely played with ambiguity.”

Until We Sleep annotations

Alexander Freed: “The story of ‘Arthur’ is one of my favorite minor sequences [Varric infiltrating and fighting his way into the fortress]. It tells us something about Varric and it delivers plot information - and it’s also a reminder that our heroes kill an awful lot of people during these series and cope with it in their own ways. In general, writing Varric let me skirt the edge of metacommentary, which I greatly enjoyed.”

David Gaider: “Varric, as always, is my ‘voice of the narrator’. Here he’s expressing some of my own amusement at Alistair’s growing list of peculiarities [‘Your majesty is quite the special snowflake’]. To think, back at the beginning of Dragon Age: Origins he was just the player’s goofy sidekick who grew up in a barn.”

Michael Atiyeh: “By the third series, Until We Sleep, I really started to have a complete feel for what I wanted the final art to look like. As an artist, it’s important to continue to evolve and grow. The close-up of Sten’s face [same page as above] is a perfect example of how I wanted the rendering on the characters to look.”

Alexander Freed: “David’s outline called for a short, somber reveal of the Calenhad story by Sten. Fueled by my desire to avoid ‘talking heads’ sequences, I scripted it as a full-on storytelling flashback. David made sure the history worked (at least from the Qunari point of view), and Chad did a beautiful job handling it in a mere two pages.”

David Gaider: “Blood is important in Dragon Age, as a theme. Here we tie in the dragon blood that was mentioned all the way back in The Silent Grove and explain what it means at last. I was a bit hesitant to tarnish the legend of Calenhad the Great in this way, but I comfort myself with the knowledge this tale is but a viewpoint and not necessarily the entire truth.”

Michael Atiyeh: “Titus melting the attacker is a great example of classic comicbook storytelling and exactly what made me fall in love with the medium.”

David Gaider: “I was really happy with how Chad handled the reveal of Mae as transgender [the scene with Mae in the cell]. My worry was that Varric finding her disrobed might be potentially titillating, but I think he handled it nicely. I only wish there was more time to have Mae properly respond to being exposed in this manner, even to a friend.”

Chad Hardin: “I originally drew Mae as female [same scene as above], then changed her anatomy, so the psychological violation and humiliation she felt would be the focus. Hope that came across.”

Chad Hardin: “When in doubt, have Bianca shoot it [Varric shooting the artifact].”

David Gaider: “This scene [Varric and Bianca the dwarf] with Varric was one I wanted to do for a very long time. We’ve hinted that Varric’s crossbow was named after a real person, someone he never wants to talk about. Now I finally had the chance to show why.”

Chad Hardin: “Of all my Dragon Age pages, this scene was hands down my favorite, because Varric is my favorite. It was awesome to get to draw Bianca in her dwarven form. These scenes give you a glimpse of the love Varric and Bianca shared. It doesn’t tell you the whole story, but you can assume plenty from what is shown. You get to see Varric mostly naked (you’re welcome), but most of all you witness Varric’s heartbreak. I felt privileged to draw it. I got so obsessed with drawing this page I did an entire watercolor painting based on the last panel [Varric gets up to leave, ‘This isn’t right’ - ? or perhaps the scene where he opens the door to leave].”

Alexander Freed: “Unreliable narrators are always tricky - done wrong, they can just confuse the reader. But I’m fairly happy with Varric’s lies throughout this series, most of which are used to downplay the emotional cost of events rather than whitewash the events themselves.”

Michael Atiyeh: “This palette worked perfectly [Varric standing in front of the doorway/portal in the Fade proper], but I can’t take all the credit because BioWare provided reference for the Fade. I added the hot orange energy for the doorway, which looks great with the sickly green sky.”

David Gaider: “This scene [Isabela’s Fade nightmare] was actually inspired by a fan named Allegra who did a cosplay as a Qunari version of Isabela. I knew I wanted something like this for Isabela’s Fade section of the comic, but it didn’t really solidify until I saw the cosplay.”

Chad Hardin: “Isabela is more affected by her encounter with Rasaan than we were led to believe. A portent of things to come?”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love this shot of Mae in the fourth panel [on the page where Isabela is affected by vines]. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention what a great character she is in the series, and Chad captures her beautifully in this shot.”

Alexander Freed: “I saw this issue as a sort of downbeat victory lap. Over the course of the previous series, our protagonists largely came to terms with the inner demons the Fade confronts them with here. The fact they’ve come so far lets them win this last battle... but they still have scars that will never completely disappear.”

David Gaider: “Maric was in the first two novels I wrote for Dragon Age. Seeing Chad’s rendering of him as a regal, grown-up version of Alistair made me incredibly nostalgic. Some characters you just never let go of.”

Alexander Freed: “I feel Varric’s lines (‘tell yourself the stories you need to tell’ but ‘never live your own lies’) are the natural endpoint of all the exchanges he’s had with Alistair, starting from the end of Chapter 1 of The Silent Grove. And of course it plays off the story of ‘Arthur’, as well.’’

Chad Hardin: “I’m happy with the way Titus came off in these pages [Titus attacking and saying ‘The last magisters of Tevinter were so close’]. He looks threatening and powerful when fighting Alistair, Isabela and Varric, but genuinely confused by his inability to defeat Maric. Bye-bye, evil Jesus.”

Alexander Freed: “I can’t help but feel for Titus. He was unthinkably corrupt, but I see him as genuinely motivated by Tevinter’s glory. (The fact Alistair reads zealous ideology as a lust for power says a lot about both characters.)”

Michael Atiyeh: “I love the seamless transition of color from Titus’ magic to the dragon breath and then back into the orange remnants of his magic in the smoke. This was a really fun panel to color [Titus saying ‘Die by what wrought you’].”

David Gaider: “‘You are not the dreamer here. I am.’ I always have a scene or a line that’s in my head when I begin a tale, and this line of Maric’s was one I wanted all the way back when I started working on The Silent Grove.”

Chad Hardin: “I love this page [Maric and Alistair clasping hands]; Mike’s colors are spot on. We get to see all our heroes in an ideal state for the last time. This is the last Dragon Age page I saved for myself.”

David Gaider: “This scene kills me [Alistair destroying the Magrallen]. I knew it needed to happen; I knew I wanted it to happen even back when I began the story. Alistair lets Maric remain in the Fade rather than dragging him back to a world which has moved on. Alistair’s ready to move on, but forcing him to give up that hope... it makes me feel like a bad person.”

Chad Hardin: “Heartbreak for Alistair as he realizes that once again, as a king, he must kill: this time, his own father (granted, the Magrallen did most of the work). I really like how Maric crumbles away in the end. This was my last page, and the emotions on the page and in my studio were very final. Altogether, this was a year of my life in the making. On my last page, I wrote a thank you to everyone involved, the crew at Dark Horse and the crew at BioWare. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank them again. It was a thrill. Finally, a huge thank-you to the Dragon Age fan community, whose support was overwhelmingly awesome.”

Michael Atiyeh: “As the story came to an end, I knew I was going to miss these characters. Writing these annotations reinforces the fact that I hope to work with this great creative team again one day. Many thanks to Dark Horse and BioWare for the opportunity to work on Dragon Age.”

Alexander Freed: “The tension between the art and the narration on this page [the one with Alistair sitting on his throne while nobles argue] is something you can only pull off in comics. Neither tells the full, bittersweet story alone. Similarly, these issues wouldn’t have been possible without everyone on the team; thanks to David, Chad, Michael, and everyone I lack space to list!”

Additional pages / art

Library Edition Volume 1 also came with some additional pages, with additional art and commentary. These are as follows (I’m including them for the sake of completion, click the links to see):

1. Alistair and dragon concepts

2. Rasaan and Maevaris concepts

3. Sten, Titus and Yavana concepts

4. A series of cover pages 1

5. A series of cover pages 2

In case anyone has trouble reading the notes that accompany these images, I’ve transcribed them below:

1. Dragon Age Sketch Book

Alistair Concept

Dragon Age / Dark Horse

Chad Hardin: “The headshot of Alistair is from a finished sketch with a rejected armor design. In order to save time, the redrawing was completed on the computer, where tweaks and changes are quick and easy, if somewhat less glorious.”

[Dragon] Head #1 / Head #2

Chad Hardin: “Everyone liked this dragon sketch so much that Dark Horse printed it for signings at conventions. You can see I did multiple proposals for the dragon’s head. It was more effective than drawing the body over and over.”

2. [arrow pointing to Mae’s sleeve] concealed [I think that’s what it says anyway] daggers / shurikens?

Chad Hardin: “When designing Rasaan and Maevaris, I wasn’t exactly sure how their roles would play out in the series. Maevaris’ outfit was inspired by brothel madams of the Wild West. I thought it would be cool to have some weapons concealed in the formal wear. These never came into play in the series, but they were there in my mind.”

3. Chad Hardin: “Although we only see Titus in his battle garb in one issue, I really liked the design of his armor. The sketch of Yavana was done on the fly and served as both a rough preliminary sketch and as a panel layout. You have to work hard and smart in comics to keep up with the deadlines.”

4. Cover Artist Anthony Palumbo: “This was my first assignment for Dark Horse, and I was both excited and nervous. I drew pencil sketches of the main characters, scanned them and played with different arrangements, poses and color schemes in Photoshop.”

5. Anthony Palumbo: “Fellow illustrator Winona Nelson helped me by sitting for photo reference. I created the mock-jewelry with gold-painted Sculpey. That’s a quick photo of my own gaping maw, to help with the image of Varric.”

#dragon age #bioware #video games #artevalentinapaz #alistair theirin #fav warden #morrigan #queen of my heart #long post #longpost

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thethirdamell · 4 years ago

Text

The Cruelest Month

Zevran/Amell - WIP / Writing exercise

The Blight was over. Amell was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden. He was also blind - mutilated by his father - and had fallen to drink, drugs, and despair. One love of his life had left him, and the other had died.

For a year, he'd had nothing. Then, for one cruel month, he'd had hope.

1. Champagne Flavored Kisses

“You can kiss me," Amell had said, and so Zevran did. Amell had been drinking wine, but the stutter in his breath was like the breaking of bubbles at the surface of champagne. For all it seemed his Warden had forgotten how to breathe, he had not forgotten how to kiss. Wintermarch fell before him, a flood of warmth in his lips, in his hands, in his trembling breath.

How Zevran had missed him. Amell's arms wrapped around his waist beneath his jacket, but it could not have been the cold that made him shiver so. He made a sound - a sort of whimper - like the union of loss and lost - and Zevran didn’t know what to do with it. There was so much in that sound.

And then all at once, there was no champagne. No bubbles. No light. No air. Nothing but gasps and sobs and snow.

2. Opportunities

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the Maker. Perhaps it was simply Leliana, but Zevran had been afforded an opportunity and he did not intend to waste it. Amell wept and Zevran forced himself to listen. To feel the racing of his own heart, and the way Amell’s hands seemed to fist around it and not his back. He was almost too much. Too fast. Too vulnerable.

Amell had been blinded and Zevran didn’t know how or why. Rumor said it was the Crows, and what if the rumors were true? What if the Crows had sent him here to finish the job? The contract on Amell had existed once. Zevran could have taken it. Amell had no way of knowing he hadn't. Nothing beyond his word, and Zevran had already proven his word meant so very little.

Zevran could have been lying. It was possible. Surely Amell knew it was possible. Yet still, the weeping. Zevran traced over the old scar at the top of Amell's ear. His Warden had pierced it years ago, on nothing but the hope that one day Zevran would give him the earring and it would mean something. And so he had, and it had. "You wish for it to mean something!? Here is what it means!" Zevran had thrown it at him, and Zevran had left him.

"Amor-" Zevran said gently.

"Don't-" Amell cut him off. Amell was taller than he, and had to bend slightly to embrace him. His hunched shoulders shook with a rickety inhale. "Don't call me that. Don't call me that unless you mean it."

"... Amor," Zevran said again. Softer. Slower. "Amor." Zevran set his fingers to Amell’s chin, and peeled him off his shoulder. What a mess he was. Face flush, blindfold stained with tears, spit cobwebbed between cracked lips. What a mess Zevran had made him. "Amor."

He meant it. He would mean it. This time, he would mean it.

3. Condensation

Condensation from the glass ran over Amell’s fingers, the chill white almost warm in winter. Amell tipped the glass back to his lips, and washed away the taste of his tears. Whatever room he was in smelled like a headache. Leliana meant well, but going from huckleberry to vanilla blossoms to cinnamon to some sort of soap was so disorienting he would have lost his sense of smell half way through the night even if he hadn’t been crying.

Zevran hadn’t wanted to stay for the rest of the First Day Ball. Leliana had found Zevran a room at the palace, and Zevran had pushed the key for said room into his hands before leaving for the night. “In case you would like a more thorough apology,” Zevran had whispered into his ear.

Amell kept a hand in his pocket, turning the brass and all its promises over in his fingers. He hadn’t been with anyone in almost two years. Not in truth. Not without magic, and a bemused bottle of wine while he compelled whatever nobleman or dignitary that wanted a night with the Hero of Ferelden into thinking they’d gotten one.

The first time he’d managed sex after he’d lost his eyes, he’d thrown up afterwards. It had gotten easier, but it had never been the same, and he hadn’t tried or wanted to try since Anders had died.

“Kid?” Oghren’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hm?” Amell asked.

“... Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go balls deep in the elf the second you see him,” Oghren explained. “You gotta play a little hard to get for once.”

“Three years isn’t hard enough?” Amell asked.

“Elf ain’t been back three minutes. Lemme guess, he’s a changed man. Well, lemme tell you something, I was a changed man. Every day, I was a changed man. Every drink, I was a changed man. You know what I didn’t do? Change.”

“You changed,” Amell argued. Oghren was sober. Oghren had changed more than he had.

“For you,” Oghren reminded him. “Cause I wasn’t about to find you the way I found you when you tried to do you know what you know when because of you know who. Cause I love you.”

“... Zevran loves me.”

“He tell you that?”

“...”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

4. Love and fear. The most destructive forces on earth.

Fuck it.

“Excuse me,” Amell caught the hand of the servant that went to refill his wine. “Could you show me to the third floor in the west wing, where the guests are staying?”

“Yes, Chancellor,” The servant gulped. A woman. She sounded young, but nerves did that to a person, and Amell couldn’t say for certain. “Of course, Chancellor.”

The woman hesitated, as if unsure what to do with him, but ultimately tangled her hands around his bicep and set off. Westward, hopefully. He didn’t need her hands. He could follow the pulse of her heart, but he wasn’t drunk enough to forget how disconcerting most people found that. “Forgive me, Chancellor - aren’t you worried about the scandal?”

“Which one?” Amell asked. There were so many on any given day it was hard to keep up.

“Of walking with a servant,” The woman explained.

“Only if you’re worried about walking with a mage,” Amell countered.

“But you’re not a mage!” The woman protested. “You’re the Hero of Ferelden.”

“What’s your name?” Amell asked.

“Nessa,” Nessa said. “... I’m an elf, messere.”

“Nessa, I’m Amell, and I’m a mage. I promise it’s fine if we walk together.”

Nessa seemed to accept that. She talked on the walk through the palace, but Amell had had too many drinks to follow along with everything she said and restrained himself to a polite hum whenever it seemed like he should respond. Eventually, Nessa announced, “We’re here, messere.”

“Thank you,” Amell said.

“Would you like me to walk you to your room?” Nessa offered.

“No, thank you, Nessa,” Amell waved her off. It wasn’t his room, and he didn’t want Zevran to know he had to have someone walk him to it. “I appreciate your help. I’ll have to repay it someday.”

Nessa said something and left. Amell’s head was so heavy he felt like he kicked it down the hall to the seventh room on the left. Zevran’s room… Maybe Zevran’s room. Shit. Which left? His left? Someone else’s left? Was this actually the seventh door or was he so drunk he’d lost count? Someone was inside. He could feel their heartbeat, but nothing beyond that. They weren’t a warden or a mage, and Amell couldn’t distinguish between anyone else.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Nessa was gone. Why had he let her go? Why did he have to be so fucking proud? What did he have to be so fucking proud about? There was no one else in the hall, but there were people scattered throughout the rooms. The last thing he needed was to knock on the wrong door and scandalize some foreign dignitary. With his luck, he’d bring half the palace out to check on him. Alistair would hold it over his head for so long he’d never feel the sun again, and Amell liked the sun. It made him feel something.

The sound of the door opening.

“I knew you could not resist,” Zevran’s voice. Amell let out the breath he’d been holding and felt for his heartbeat, a hand to Zevran’s chest and whatever fabric he wore atop it. Suede maybe.

“Why would I want to?” Amell countered.

“Why indeed?” Zevran pulled him inside and shut the door behind them.

Amell found his jaw, tracing over the memory of black ink on bronze skin before he sought his lips. His kiss was almost enough to bring him back to tears. Oghren was wrong. Amor meant love. Amell knew it meant love. It was enough that it meant love. It didn’t matter that Zevran never said it in the King’s tongue. Amell didn’t even like the King.

He liked Zevran. He loved Zevran. Amell had loved Zevran as much as Zevran had feared Amell loving him. For one passionate year love and fear had felt like the most destructive forces on Thedas, a force to rival the Archdemon, but in the end love and fear hadn’t destroyed anything but them.

Amell fisted his hands in Zevran’s hair and kissed him harder. Zevran kissed back, cradling his jaw and caressing down his side. It was just a kiss, and then it was just a haze. Flashes of miserable memories Amell buried beneath skilled hands and hot breath and so many fucking buttons. “What is this?” Amell asked while he fought with whatever Zevran was wearing.

Zevran chuckled against his neck, his hands finding easy purchase beneath his doublet, “You would think it a chastity belt with how you struggle, no?”

… A joke. It was a joke. Amell meant to laugh, but the sound was a harsh hum.

“Allow me-” Zevran started.

“I should go,” Amell untangled himself from him.

“Should you, now?” Zevran asked, a familiar evenness in his voice that spoke of anything but, “You are too much, my dear Warden.”

“You mean I’ve had too much,” Amell corrected him with forced levity.

“This as well.” Zevran allotted. “... Very well. Go then.”

Amell patted himself down, checking over his outfit, and whether or not it was still something he could be seen wearing, but Zevran hadn’t gotten much further than he had. He found two undone buttons and fixed them. Because he could fix them. Because buttons were easy as long as he was the one wearing them, and he wasn’t undoing them from the bottom of a bottle.

Zevran’s hand, tangled around his collar and pulling him back when he turned to go. “... but take the memory of me with you.” Zevran kissed him. Just once, and there was surprisingly little pressure in it. “Another night, yes?”

“Another night.” Amell promised.

5. Thick, wool jackets piled on a leather chair in the corner of a dark bar.

"I'm turning in, Kid," Oghren thumped a fist against his back. "You know the way back to your room?"

"Hm," Amell took a long pull of blood lotus and waved him off.

"Lay off the coffin nails, will you?" Oghren said.

"One pull won't kill me." At this rate, nothing could. He was already dead. He’d died so many times he was losing count. In a closet in the Circle. On the Tower of Ishal. On the back of the Archdemon. In his bed. In his bath. Death after death after death, but he kept coming back.

"You got court tomorrow," Oghren reminded him.

"I'll be up," Amell promised.

"Yeah, alright," Oghren said, chair creaking across the floor when he stood. Amell didn't hear him leave, and turned to take in the pulse of his heart. Slightly sped up. Stress.

"I'm fine, Oghren." Amell lied. There was only so much drinking could do for him, but he didn't plan on overdoing it. He just needed to forget everything Zevran forced him to remember. The Blight. The breakup. The fucking closet. Amell took another pull for the high and the hallucinations that followed it.

Oghren left. Amell smoked, resting against a pile of thick wool jackets stacked high on the leather couch beside him. They belonged to whoever else was in the parlor with him, but all their heartbeats bled together with the lotus, and he felt alone in the not-dark.

6. Allergic to bullshit

Oghren couldn't sleep. He was itchy as a cuckold, and his throat kept swelling up on him and choking him awake. Coulda been the palace. Coulda been the bed. Coulda been something he ate. Coulda been, but it wasn't. It was the Kid, giving him a full on reaction in the middle of the night. After three years, Oghren was allergic to his bullshit.

Oghren got up, got a drink of water, and got dressed. He went back downstairs to the parlor, first at a walk, then at a jog, and eventually at a full on sprint, but the Kid was where he left him. Lying on a couch in the smoking parlor, the air around him so thick with blood lotus folks could get high on the fumes.

A few had. Some noble lass was lying on his chest while Amell blew smoke in her face. Another noble fellow sat on the floor, leaning against the couch and smoking his own roll while Amell toyed with his hair. The Kid was fine. Fucked up, but fine.

He wasn't dead. He wasn't lying in the bath, a bottle of aqua magus shattered on the floor, incense still burning while he overdid it on everything there was to overdo it on. Oghren just had to drag him off the couch and not out of the grave. "Let's go, Kid," Oghren said and didn't sob.

Kid was still breathing. Kid was still dressed. Kid could still walk. Oghren made it back to his room with him, and Amell slumped to the floor as soon as Oghren untangled him from his shoulder. Paranoia made him check his pulse, but the Kid was alright. He was just out.

Oghren rolled him onto his side and pushed him up against the wall to keep him that way. It would be his sodding luck if the little shit suffocated on his own sick in the middle of the night. Ironic maybe, considering being sick was the only thing that'd saved him a few months ago. Stupid shit. Stupid little shit.

What the fuck, Kid!? The fuck were you thinking?

I don't know. I'm sorry.

Fuck your sorry, you little shit! You trying to kill yourself?

I don't know. I don't know.

Fuck you. Fuck you, Kid.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

You stupid fuck. You stupid little fuck.

"You're alright," Oghren decided.

He was alright. The Kid was alright. His kid was alright.

7. Earl Grey

Fuck. Where was he? Not the parlor. The air wasn’t thick enough. Amell splayed a hand across the cold floor beneath him, a stark contrast to cushioning leather and the few vague memories he had of last night. He was still dressed, but his cape was gone. He must have left it in the parlor, buried in some indistinguishable pile of woolen outerwear.

Where was he? Amell dragged himself to his knees with the help of the wall beside him, a rising panic in the pit of his stomach and a growing ache in his head. They joined together in his heart, like feral lovers tearing each other apart, and every pulse was agony. Where the fuck was he? Amell clutched his forehead, cursing his lack of creationism and struggling with the magic that pulled on the pulse of those around him.

His hand crawled across the wall until it connected with something. Wood. A post. A bedframe. Rich sheets. Layered. Fine quarters. For a noble or an honored guest. His room? Someone else’s room? Why was he on the floor? Amell stumbled to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed. Probably his room. Maybe he’d made it back or gone back with someone.

Amell pulled his blindfold off, blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Fuck,” Amell muttered. What time was it? When was court? Had he missed it? Where the fuck was he?

A Warden’s pulse. Oghren. Alone, some distance from him but closing. He should probably put his blindfold back on. Oghren couldn’t stand his eyes, but his head ached and his forehead itched and he was as sick of the fucking blindfold as he was of everything else. Amell stayed on the bed, stretching the knots from his back until he heard the door to the room open and close.

“Morning, princess. Get your beauty sleep?” Oghren pushed something into his hands. Ceramic. Warm. A cup. Amell sniffed it. Leaves and dirt. Tea.

“Where am I?” Amell asked.

“My room,” Oghren said, the bed lurching with his weight when he sat somewhere off to the left.

“What time is it?”

“Morning.”

“Did I miss court?”

“No, but you’re gonna.”

“Oghren-”

“Get over it,” Another dip in the mattress accompanied by the rustling of sheets as Oghren made himself comfortable. “They will. Drink your damn tea.”

Amell took an obedient sip. Bergamot. Not that it mattered. He hated tea, no matter the type or how it helped with his hangover. “I’m expected,” Amell reminded him, “I need to go.”

“You’re the Chancellor,” Oghren countered, with a slurp and a satisfied gasp that was wholly unwarranted, considering he was probably drinking the same piss. “You don’t need to do shit. Besides, it’s the King’s court.”

There was that. Alistair would take his absence for an insult. The nobility for his backing of the Queen. There were worse days to be absent. Amell took another drink.

“You can’t go back there, Kid,” Oghren said. “Not over the elf. You’re better than that.”

No he wasn’t.

“Well?” Oghren pressed.

“Well what?” Amell asked.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“You know what,” Oghren kicked him, but he was too far away to do anything more than push the sole of his shoe into his hip. “Let’s hear it. You talk it out or you drink it out. You want your kid to find you like I found you?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Nuh-uh.” Oghren cut him off.

Amell sighed, cradling his cup in his lap. He didn’t want to talk it out. He didn’t even want to drink it out. He didn’t want it out at all. He wanted it buried or branded with the rest of his emotions. He should have just let them do it in the tower.

“Kid,” A clink of Oghren setting his drink down.

“I can’t,” Amell croaked.

“I ain’t asking you to walk on lava here. I’m just asking you to talk.”

“I can’t sleep with him,” Amell clarified.

“Like you two ever did much sleepin’ anyhow,” Oghren snorted.

“I couldn’t get his jacket off.”

“Can’t believe I’m giving advice on this, but so what? So he keeps the jacket on. Just get your pants off and go about your business like I do with the ladies.”

“He said something. A joke. I just-... I felt like I was back there… in the Circle… I always feel like I’m back there…”

“... You’re not, Kid.”

“I know.”

“Do ya?”

“... no.” A shudder tangled up in his chest. Amell fought it back with tea and shallow breaths and time. “…I never know where I am.”

“... I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know, Kid.” Oghren shifted again, and his hand fell on Amell's shoulder. “... You’re in Denerim. You’re at the palace. You’re on the second floor in the west wing. You’re in a guest room. You’re with me, Kid. You’re with me.”

8. Hygge (A quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment)

A wave of stress. The sort of stress you feel in your skin, under your fingernails, paralyzing you more effectively than any spell or poison. The sort of stress that says run, fight, stop, you're dying, you're dying, you’re dying. It was the kind of stress Amell felt whenever he stopped to think about how he felt. How he really felt.

Amell couldn't have feelings. Growing up, feelings were just a thing the Circle could take from you. If you wanted to survive you had to take them first. Nothing could matter. Nothing had mattered. Nothing except Jowan and Anders, but Jowan was Leyvn and Anders was dead and they couldn’t matter now because they were gone.

The Blight had only made it worse. He’d been one of only two surviving Grey Wardens, trying to save a country from civil war and a world from annihilation. Nothing else could matter in the face of that, and after? He was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden, trying to resurrect a dead Order and a dead Arling as one of the first mages openly entrusted with a position of nobility since the Shame of Serault.

There was no room for feeling in any of that, but he’d had feelings anyway, and his feelings had died. After everything, how was he supposed to have them again?

Amell finished his tea and held the empty cup in his lap. He didn’t know where he could put it down. So far his assessment of Oghren’s room was limited to the floor and the bed.

“There’s someone at your door,” Amell noted.

The knock came a moment later.

“Could you be more of a creepy fuck?” Oghren took his cup away. Amell wasn’t sure what he did with it. He found his blindfold, tied it back around his eyes, and the sound of the door opening followed.

“Elf,” Oghren noted.

“Oghren,” Zevran’s voice returned.

Amell forced himself to take a steadying breath. He couldn’t break down every time Zevran was around him.

“You start your monthlies yet?” Oghren asked.

“I missed you too, my foul smelling friend,” Zevran returned.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on.”

“You are only slightly more attractive to me than a slime-filled pool of swamp water,” Zevran assured him. “You have my oath.”

“Better be,” Oghren grunted, “Come on in then.”

“Here you have caught me off guard,” His steps were soundless, but Amell felt his pulse when he stepped inside, circling Oghren to stand a short distance from him. “I came only to ask if you knew what room Amell was staying in, and yet I see it is this one. Amor, if you have taken in with the dwarf then I fear you have traveled to an awkward place I dare not follow.”

“He wishes,” Oghren said. “Boss’s room’s across the hall, three down on the left.”

“I should probably get to it,” Amell stood up. “I need to change.”

“Perhaps I could help with one or both of those things?” Zevran offered.

“Don’t you two start with that. Not in here,” Amell imagined a finger wagging accompanied Oghren’s threat, but his blood magic wasn’t quite precise enough to distinguish between the veins in someone’s fingers and their hand. “Go on, get out.”

Amell took a step towards the door, when a hand on his arm stopped him.

“May I?” Zevran asked.

“If you like.”

Zevran escorted him out of Oghren's room and back to his own. He smelled like leather, but the texture of his sleeve was linen. Maybe a vest. Amell ran his hand down to what felt like an armband with some sort of embossment. He couldn’t quite tell what it was by the time they reached his room. Amell let them inside, and stood in the center of it, trying to think of what to say to him.

"Let us dispense with all the awkwardness of last night, shall we?" Zevran saved him. "My words were ill chosen, but I meant no ill will."

"I know."

"Ah,” Zevran cleared his throat. “Of course you know. Why would you not? I-... meant only that if you need help-"

"I don't,” Amell cut him off. Maybe a little too sharply.

"Truly?" Zevran sounded surprised. Amell must have frowned, because when Zevran continued he sounded uncharacteristically soft. "I don't know. How would I know such a thing? I have not been with you. You are blind and I am not and you must tell me."

Amell let go of whatever emotion had been fueling him. Pride, probably. “I will,” He promised, and hoped he meant it, “If I ever do.”

“Good,” A pop, like the anxious cracking of knuckles. “Then I shall be there to give it if you do… I am told the king is holding court today?”

“He is,” Amell didn’t want to talk about Alistair.

“And I am told you should be there?”

“I should.”

“Haha! I do love a good royal scandal. Perhaps we could add to it? The Chancellor of Ferelden, out in public, a handsome fellow on his arm. A lover perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

Zevran clasped the back of his head, tilting his head down to urge him into a kiss that tasted like mint and spoke of a purposeful morning. Amell tangled one hand in Zevran’s hair and ran the other down his chest, catching on some sort of necklace resting against a loosely laced linen shirt. Leather vest, like he’d guessed, and familiar mixed metal rounds still belted at his waist.

Zevran tugged his doublet free of his belt, and Amell forced himself to break from him before the day went somewhere he couldn’t. “I don’t need help changing, Zev.”

“Are you sure?” Zevran joked, but this time it was easier to handle, “Such a complicated outfit you wear, my dear Warden.”

“Is it?” Amell couldn’t help smiling.

“Why yes! You see, there is…” Zevran floundered for a moment, “A belt?”

“I can’t, Zev,” Amell said, bracing himself for a fight. “Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran relented, so easily it didn’t seem possible. “I shall wait outside, then.”

“Thank you. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“A few minutes it is,” Zevran went to the door, but didn’t leave.

“I know you’re still here,” Amell said.

“Nonsense,” Zevran laughed, returning to him for another kiss, and Amell couldn’t help wondering why he’d hesitated. What more he’d wanted to say. “You are alone.”

“Who am I talking to, then?”

“Why yourself, of course! You are so very vain, after all.”

“My mistake.”

“One you will make again, I am sure. Do not take too long.”

Zevran released him, and actually left the second time around. Amell changed into a fresh doublet and trousers, and rejoined him in the hall. Zevran took him to the servant’s quarters, where a second, smaller, First Day celebration was taking place the day after the nobility had had theirs. Whatever room they were in was warm, and slightly crowded, but the furniture had been cleared away to make room for dancing.

Nessa was there, and sounded excited to see him again, as did a handful of others she introduced him to once they realized he wasn’t there to interrupt the festivities but join them. There was no alcohol being served. No incense choking out the room. Just music and laughter, and a comfortable conviviality to it all.

“Can you dance?” Zevran asked.

“Can you lead?” Amell countered.

Zevran’s laugh was light. “I shall be glad of it,” He took his hand, found a space for them, “You have led long enough, no? I think you deserve a rest.”

9. Crisp

Amell was not Rinna. He was not Taliesin. True, he was many things they were. Cunning. Ruthless. But he was also many things they were not. Forgiving. Gentle. Alive. The palace gardens were frozen over, and so conveniently abandoned. Zevran sat on a bench of ice and stone, Amell's head in his lap, their breath misting in the crisp winter air.

Zevran threaded his fingers through Amell's hair, wisping a few raven strands free of his ridiculous blindfold. "Why do you wear this?"

"For the aesthetic," Amell joked.

"I do not suppose I can persuade you to take it off?" Zevran asked, thumbing the edge of the cloth and wondering at what lay beneath it. Eyes, surely. Real or glass, red or some other color, mangled or not.

"Just the blindfold?"

"And anything else that you fancy removing, of course, this is a given," Zevran laughed, "Come now, I am serious. What is the purpose?"

"I told you," Amell said.

"No, I do not believe so," Zevran traced one of Amell’s eyebrows, relaxed despite his prying, which seemed a good sign, "Shall I guess? You are concerned for how they look when you cannot?"

"Something like that.”

"Something like that is not that,” Zevran noted.

"Tell me about Antiva," Amell deflected.

"Antiva," Zevran let the conversation go with a wistful sigh, watching the word catch in the cold. "Very well, Antiva. It is a wonderful place, save for all the Antivans. I have been killing rather a lot of them, and the Crows are cross that I have crossed them, as it were."

"Why have you?" Amell asked.

"Why not?" Zevran laughed.

“You said you just wanted to escape them,” Amell reminded him.

"And so I have,” Zevran said. “And yet when I left, I realized it was not enough to be free. I had to do something with my freedom. You remember the orphanage, yes? In Denerim?”

“I remember.”

“We do not have such things in Antiva. Not such as they are here. The Crows empty them too quickly. We are not so very different men, you and I. I was sold to the Crows. You were given to your Circle. Tell me, Amor, if you could go back, would you not do the same? That day at the tower? All of your templars gathered in one little room… You have such a spell that would serve - a cloud of death. I have seen it.”

Amell cracked his knuckles, “...We needed the soldiers.”

“True.” Zevran allotted, “But this was not my question.”

“... you know I would.”

“So I do,” Zevran traced the anxious tension out of Amell’s brow. There was no need for it. Zevran knew the man he’d come back to. “And now you know I would as well.”

Amell caught his wandering hand, and kissed his fingers and the ring Zevran wore upon them. Amell’s brow furrowed again, in confusion and not confession, and he spun the silver band around his finger. “... Is this the ring I gave you?”

“So it is.”

“... I thought you would have added it to your belt.”

“I considered it, I will not lie.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Who can say?” Zevran shrugged, but the deflection was an old habit, and he’d promised to break them. He traced Amell’s lips, dry against the cold, until a smile curved in them. “... Who needs to say?”

10. Melting snowman

Amell caught Zevran’s hand, still tracing his lips, and wove their fingers together. "What are your plans?"

"My plans?" Zevran repeated with a blithesome laugh, still unchanged after all these years. "Have I given you some indication I make a lot of these?"

"How long are you staying in Ferelden?" Amell revised. "Until the snow melts? Wintersend?"

"Who is to say I am leaving?" Zevran countered.

Experience.

"You love adventure," Amell said instead.

"And there is none to be had here?" Zevran asked. "I had thought to offer my services to the crown, and the lovely woman who wears it, as it were. You will put in a good word for me, I am sure?"

"I'll have to think of a few," Amell joked.

"Tsk,” Zevran flapped his hand free to swat him with it, “So cruel you are. I think I may cry.”

"Skilled," Amell ventured, trying to remember the man he’d fallen for years ago and wondering how much of him remained. "Dashing. Clever. Charismatic."

"Sexy?" Zevran suggested.

"Obviously," Amell dropped his arm off the bench and squeezed Zevran’s calf when it proved the easiest part of him to reach lying on his thigh. Amell had always liked his legs. "Gallant."

"Gallant?" Zevran laughed his familiar laugh. "You are aware of the meaning of this word, no? I regret to inform you an assassin is no gallant thing to be, amor."

"You are," Amell argued. "I remember how you spoke against Knight-Commander for locking the mages in the tower and calling for the Rite of Annulment… you were the only one who did. I think-..."

"... what is it you think?"

I think that's when I fell in love with you.

"I think you're gallant."

11. Bleak

Amell let the words go. He’d said them once, despite his better judgment, and he didn’t trust himself to say them again. For all he said them often enough to his friends, they lacked the weight they carried when he said them to the men who mattered most in his life. They lacked the heartache. Zevran had left. Anders had died. The words were a curse, a hex, an affliction he wouldn’t speak again without hearing them spoken to him first.

His recticience changed nothing. His feelings were all still there, unspoken, but his love felt less unrequited if he gave nothing to requite. It wasn’t. This time it wasn’t, but Zevran hadn’t said it first, and the thought that he might not say it back too bleak to bear, so it was better not to say at all.

12. You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet

You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Felsi understood that. Girl broke damn near a dozen trying to cook one. Kid understood it too, but with the Elf back it was like he forgot. Spent a whole week at the Palace flitting and farting around the heavy stuff - so scared to talk it out he figured he’d smoke it out instead. Kid was fucking it up, and Oghren could tell, and that was saying something.

Oghren couldn’t tell whim from wham on the best of days, but that was what the Kid was doing. Whim-whamming it up. Elf wasn’t gonna put up with that shit. Elf barely put up with the Kid’s shit the first time around. Add in the smoke, and the drink, and the dust, and the Elf was out. Oghren could smell it. That sovereign was as good as got, but Oghren didn’t really want it. He had enough coin. Kid took care of him, even if the Kid never took care of himself.

Oghren thought the Kid’s kid would snap him out of it, and he had. Kid had gotten better for a bit, but soon as the Elf showed up, he went sliding right back. Elf hadn’t even left him yet, but it was like the Kid could tell he was gonna and was just trying to speed it up. Oghren didn’t know what to do about it. Kid was the one who’d helped him get back with Felsi, but Oghren didn’t know how to help the Kid get back with the Elf when it seemed like he’d rather get back with the drugs, ‘cept to take the drugs away.

“Alright Kid,” Oghren snatched the roll from the Kid’s fingers one evening, and tossed the burning lotus into his drink. Kid shouldn’t have been mixing lotus and aquae lucidius anyway. “You gotta stop.”

“... Did you just throw my smoke in my drink?” Amell asked.

“Aye, and don’t you go drinking it anyway. Sick of seeing you in this longue. Why don’t you go fuck around with the elf?”

“I told you - I can’t fuck him.”

“So don’t fuck him. Shouldn’t be fucking yourself instead.”

“It was just one smoke, Oghren, and that drink costs a sovereign”

“And I’m good as gold for it. Fixing to make one off you anyway you keep this shit up.”

“I’m not keeping anything up.”

“Yeah, I got that that’s the problem. Why don’t you go fix it?”

“I can’t.”

“Not in here you can’t.”

“Oghren-...” Kid went hunting for his drink, and Oghren slid it out of reach. Took damn near everything in him not to slide it right into his mouth, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d lost too many days to drink, but the Kid had almost lost them all, and Oghren hadn’t noticed.

He’d dragged the Kid out of the Deep Roads and called it a day. Went back to drinking like it was nothing. Watched the Kid go back to blood magic like it was nothing. Knew - sodding knew in his rotting guts - that the Kid wasn’t alright, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Why would he? The Kid was never alright, and Oghren wasn’t all that right either, but he was a damn shade better than the Kid.

Took finding him in the bath to finally figure it out, and Oghren wasn’t gonna find him there again.

“Go to your room, Kid,” Oghren said.

“Give me my drink.”

“Go to your room.”

“Give me my drink and I will.”

“You ain’t getting it unless you magic it out of my hands, and we both know how that went down last time.”

“I missed last time.”

“Don’t care if you miss or not, you still ain’t getting it. You don’t want it bad enough.”

“You have no idea how badly I want it.”

“Fuck you, Kid, I’m the only one who knows how bad you want it, and I’m the only one who can keep you from getting it. You know damn well why your magic doesn’t work on me.”

“Just give me the drink, Oghren.”

“Go to bed, Kid. Take the Elf with you, why don’t you?”

Kid didn’t call it. Slammed his chair back and stormed outta the lounge without another word. Oghren stayed and stared at the drink. Aquae Lucidius was ambrosial quality booze. One whiff was enough to burn the hair back into his nose. It was liquid gold - and it was going to waste - and that was fine with him.

One sovereign down. One more to lose.

#prompt list #writing exercise #zevran ariani #zevran #amell #amell/zevran #apples and apostates #dark content #tw: drugs #tw: suicide mention #tw: rape mention #WIP #No happy ending

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canyouhearthelight · 4 years ago

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The Miys, Ch. 121

Insert Winter Holiday is here, again!

I’m queuing this ahead of time, and I originally had a really cute message about the end of the year. Then, I realized what year this is and said “Yeah, nope. Not jinxing it, will not have the actual end of the world be my fault.”

I am going to leave it at this: thank you to @baelpenrose, @raven-fae, and @charlylimph-blog for all your help with this story in 2020. Thank you to every single one of you who bombed by notes this year when you found The Miys. Thank you @janeshadow for talking me into getting off my rump and making the story easier to navigate.

Standing to my feet after putting the last dish in the oven, I couldn’t help but smile as I looked around my quarters. Despite the fact that we had forgone a tree this year for Insert Winter Holiday, there was a definite festive feeling as everyone packed themselves in as much as possible. Derek had clearly found my lights again, as they circled every public space in my quarters, including the kitchen. Furniture was pushed as far against the walls as possible, and everyone had been advised to bring their own cushion to sit on.

In the two celebrations since waking up on the Ark, dinner and gifts had largely been a smaller, more typical dinner-style affair. However, without my noticing, my family had grown exponentially since then, and this year finger foods passed from hand to hand as everyone relaxed and chatted. Charly, Tyche, and I took turns in the kitchen, with Hannah waving us all three to sit while she checked on something in the oven so that we could rest and enjoy ourselves, too.

“Where’s Derek?” Charly asked as she approached me to take her shift watching the last batch of food bake.

“He isn’t great with crowds, so he and Sam already came for lunch and to exchange gifts,” I explained, stroking the scarf they had given me. “They already left and took Mac with them.”

“Aww, they’re hogging the Christmas Cat… No fair!” she pouted comically.

“Eh, Mac’s not a fan of crowds either. Besides, I’m pretty sure someone gave him cheese - again - so I’d rather the little gas bomb not be here tonight.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed before popping me with a tea towel. “Go! Your turn to socialize and cuddle!”

I held up my hands in defeat before carefully picking my way around people. Coffey was gracious enough to take my hand and guide me around him and over to where Conor and Maverick were guarding the astonishingly huge pile of gifts. Arthur was nearby, arguing with Conor and trying to drag Simon into it every chance he could. The topic sounded like a rehash of the one regarding fortifications, only this time it was Fortification Redux: The Plant Edition. “We’ve already confirmed there are no megafauna on Von!” Arthur exclaimed wearily. “Not even vegetarians. Why would we need fortifications?”

I could tell Conor was just provoking him when he lazily waved a hand. “It’s psychological, to make people feel safe. Besides, agriculturally, it serves as double duty.”

“He has a point,” Simon conceded, wincing when Arthur turned a playful squint his direction. “He does!”

“Whatever,” Arthur surrendered with a mock-sulk. “Sophia…”

“You know where I stand on this argument, don’t even try it,” I laughed as I dropped in between my partners.

“You wound me! I was going to offer to whip up some goulash, but now I don’t think I will since someone thinks she should accuse me of such atrocious crimes.”

I rolled my eyes at his theatrics. “Whip up whatever you want, I’m done with kitchen duty, and so is Tyche. Charly’s on her last lap.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Maverick laughed, catching Coffey’s careful eye on his beloved bundle of energy.

Arthur practically leapt to his feet. “That decides it. I am so offended by Sophia’s accusations that I am going to share the kitchen with Miss Chaos Incarnate and leave you all to wonder what wound up in the food.”

Tyche tipped her head back to scowl at him from where she was draped across Antoine’s lap. “If I find a single eyeball…”

Muttering something suspiciously close to “Dammit”, Arthur prowled across the room as though the entire floor wasn’t draped in legs and people.

I opened my mouth to whine about how he could do that, only to be cut off when a piece of pastry was stuffed in my mouth. Grievances forgotten, my eyebrows shot up as I chewed. “Tyche! When did you make donuts!?”

“It may have involved time travel,” she waggled her fingers at me. “But no blood magic or ritual sacrifices, swear.”

I could see Antoine shake his head before responding over his shoulder. “She made them this morning.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Travelling forward through time is still time travel, mon coeur.” He tapped the tip of her nose with one finger, eliciting an expression from her that promised swift and painful retribution.

A soft rustle of fabric caught my attention, and I turned to see a pile of purple and jade-green silk land beside me before a long, dark braid came into view. “The donuts are quite delightful,” Parvati declared as she yanked Xiomara down beside her in a graceless heap. Grabbing a dark brown one from the plate, she popped it in her lover’s mouth just as Xiomara was about to complain. “That one is a Black Forest, I believe. You’ll love it.”

“Careful on those,” Conor warned. “I think they’re half booze.”

“I only soaked the cherries in kirsch,” Tyche corrected. “Not the whole thing.”

“So yeah, half booze,” I corrected.

Giving her most fearsome scowl, Xio snatched the rest of the Black Forest donuts off the plate and balanced them in one hand.

A squeal of laughter interrupted our shenanigans, and we whipped our heads around in time to see Hannah holding a plate of mini-Wellingtons over her head without even looking, while Charly struggled to get up from where she was sprawled across both the other woman’s lap and Coffey’s. Zach stared at Hannah like he just saw his first sunset, and Maverick snorted behind me.

“He is such a goner over her,” I heard him say, followed by a light smack.

“Because I have certainly never seen you look at Conor or Sophia in such a way,” Parvati added lightly. “And obviously not when Conor is baby-talking to the plants around the ship, or when Sophia is so busy working she will eat whatever is handed to her.”

He buried his face in the back of my hair before squeaking. “Nope. Never!”

I twisted around so I could see them both. “Wait. When did this happen?”

“Three times a week, in your office,” Tyche interjected in a bored tone. “And pretty religiously.”

I felt my face heat up. “Does everyone know about this except me.”

Xiomara nodded furiously, cheeks plumped out and a suspicious number of donuts missing from the pile in her hand. Parvati shook her head at the antics and smiled gently. “Someone needs to make sure you eat… He brings you gyoza, and you don’t even notice. It’s quite adorable.”

Conor laughed. “She’s got you there, love.”

Eyes flashed as four heads snapped around to him. “Oh, don’t think you’re off the hook, mister!” Charly scolded at him. “He does the same thing to you. Those little pasties you like so much, with the potato and onion.”

Maverick groaned his embarrassment into my shoulder, while Conor’s smile faltered. “I would remember that,” he insisted.

“Not even once,” Charly confirmed.

Rather than being embarrassed, Conor just laughed again and reached to drag us both over to him. “I don’t know how someone so tall can be so sneaky, but I won’t argue.”

That moment was when Arthur decided to return, a trail of slurps in his wake as he handed out goulash. “No eyeballs,” he sighed dejectedly as he handed one to Tyche.

“You guys are no fun,” Charly muttered as she took her own bowl.

Poor Simon eyed the offering hesitantly. Arthur gently wiggled the bowl at him. “I promise, you’ll like it.”

Carefully, as though it would explode at any moment, Simon took the dish and managed a small bite. After a few seconds - presumably to confirm there was no trick - he chewed and immediately started bolting it down at a rapid pace. “I thought it would be spicier,” he admitted as he snaked a hand out to grab another.

“That would be the paprika. Really red, not really spicy.”

Maverick laughed as he took a bowl, but poked it with his fork before wrinkling his nose. “Sorry, Arthur, not happening.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than Simon’s hand darted out again, eliciting laughter from everyone.

Arthur shrugged, well aware of Maverick’s food aversions by this point. “It’s not for everyone. You keep your tofu, I’ll keep my goulash.”

Not long after that, the last of the food was gone and dishes were cleared. Hot drinks were handed out by Zach and Conor, and then it was finally time to exchange gifts. Baked goods from Tyche made the rounds, along with beautiful accessories from Parvati, carefully curated books from Alistair, plants from Conor and Sam, and more.

At one point, Arthur was staring at his gift from Charly like it would bite him. “It’s… a pen?”

She nodded, producing a small jar of black ink from somewhere. “A fountain pen, with black India ink. I made them both myself.”

Arching an eyebrow, he brought the pen closer to examine the engravings. “An otter… with a sword?”

“With a saber,” she corrected. “I tried to make it look like yours, but do you know how hard you make it to get a good look at that thing!?”

“It’s literally on display in my office when I’m not practicing with it.”

“And how am I supposed to get in there when you aren’t? You booby-trapped the door!”

“Wonder why….” he mused with a small smile. “This is very intricate,” he finally admitted.

“Consider it an apology for the other ones.”

“Oh!” I realized. “Give me just a second, everyone.” Scrambling, and with nowhere near Arthur or Tyche’s grace, I managed to make it to our bedroom to grab an armful of boxes. Once I was back at the doorway, I peeked around the stack and smiled. “These are from Derek, with a little bit of help from Hannah.” Checking names, I distributed the boxes before making my way back to my spot.

“This is… It’s so soft!” Parvati exclaimed. “And the colors are beautiful!”

I smiled as I rubbed the scarf I wore. “He wanted to show his appreciation for how welcome he feels, even if he was overwhelmed at the idea of being here.”

Hannah nodded as she brushed her scarf against her cheek. “We worked on these for months, but I didn’t realize he found time to make one for me… All the colors and patterns are different for each person, by the way. They’re meant to show us how he thinks of us.”

Conor held up the green and orange fabric that his box revealed. “I love it, but I’m confused.”

She rolled her eyes, and tapped her own scarf. “This goldish-brown is my eyes, and this olive green are the clothes I usually wear.”

Coffey’s laughter rang through the room as he unfolded his to see a pattern like Neapolitan ice cream: Rich brown, bright pink, with white swirled throughout. “I think he nailed it.”

Antoine’s head tilted until it almost met his shoulder. “Our eyes… Every single scarf has the color of our eyes in it. That must have been so hard for him to do.” I could see what he meant - Derek did not look people in the eyes, as a rule.

“He wants us to know that he sees us, and that he likes that we see him,” Zach shrugged. When we all stared at him, he just blinked. “What? You don’t work with him as much as I do without figuring those things out.”

Without exception, everyone wrapped their gifts from Derek around themselves before the next set of gifts were handed out. “These are from me,” Arthur explained. “Hopefully I got it right.”

Like Alistair, Arthur had gifted everyone a book, but rather than a book that furthered a current interest, he had sought out historical insights into extremely niche topics for everyone. Some made pretty obvious sense - a book on the historical events leading to and the impacts of the Harlem Renaissance for me, a book on the evolution of law in various cultures for Xiomara - but some were far less obvious.

“A book on Roman law?” Charly asked, confused.

He reached over and tapped on the cover. “Specifically, this is about how much of Roman law was the result of litigation, with some pretty hysterical results. I think you’ll get a huge kick out of it.”

She cracked the book open to a random page and looked at it. “If you weren’t home when you were subpoenaed as a witness, you didn’t have to testify, but if you didn’t the person could stand outside your house and - “ she snorted before continuing in a fit of giggles. “Yell at you… for no more than three…. Three hours a day, three days a week - “ another snort “for up to a year!” She wiped a tear from her eye and surrendered to her giggles. “Oh that’s amazing! Thank you!”

Charly wasn’t the only one laughing. Even Xiomara was snickering. “That is an incredibly specific law.”

“Absurd laws are best laws,” he shrugged.

Eventually, all the gifts were distributed, but nobody was in a rush to leave. Instead, we lounged around, quietly catching up and talking about our plans for the upcoming ‘year’. At some point, Insert Winter Holiday had, unanimously and without fanfare, become the end of the year celebration on the Ark, even as far as the Council made plans. With that in mind, we were taking a chance to celebrate our continued survival for yet another cycle, and tried to look forward with optimism toward the next one.

I just let the feelings sink into me, enjoying the presence of the people who moved into my life. Had I been asked fifteen years ago where I saw myself in the future, ‘on a spaceship, as the last of the human race, about to colonize another world’ would have been nowhere on that list. But here I was, with a larger family than I had ever dreamed.

Despite all that we had been through, I couldn’t wait to see what the future would bring.

(A/N: Keep your eyes out for an announcement on New Year’s Eve!)

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#the miys #humans are weird #humans are space orcs #found family #original science fiction #learning to write #aliens #apocalypse #earth is space australia #learning to live #humans are space fae #humans are awesome #humans are strange #hfy

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kirkwallgremlin · 4 years ago

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2 for dialogue prompts for carvistair? 👀

2. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Thank you ♥️♥️ in my head, this started off very light and fluffy but then it ended up a little heavier and I made myself a lil sad with Duncan and Bethany feelings.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Alistair asked one day as they lay on the bank of the river. It was one of the nicest days they’d had in a while and the pair of them had decided to take advantage, slipping out for a swim, and the sun lay warm on their skin. The remaining water droplets were rapidly disappearing in the heat, the grass rough beneath them, and clouds drifted above them, a scattering of white across the blue sky.

“Course you can,” Carver said, turning just his head to look at Alistair. Beside him, Alistair propped himself up on one elbow.

“I like your tattoos,” he said and Carver grinned at him.

“That’s not a secret,” he said. “You’ve already shown me that, more than once.”

“I just have extraordinary taste,” Alistair said. “I know when something is worth admiring.”

Carver flexed his muscles.

“It is a burden being a work of art, but somebody has to bear it,” he said and Alistair laughed, though Carver wondered if it had a little less enthusiasm than usual.

“You are beautiful,” Alistair said and Carver covered his face with his arm, partly to block out the sun and partly to hide his flattered embarrassment. He was still getting used to Alistair saying things like that, although if he kept saying them with the same frequency, maybe it wouldn’t take long. Or maybe he never would and Alistair would keep giving him that fluttery feeling in his chest forever.

“What’s on your mind though?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. “Was that your secret?”

“I always kind of wanted one,” Alistair said. “A tattoo. I got close a few times, Zevran was willing during the Blight, but I was never brave enough.”

“You personally took on an archdemon during a Blight and you think you’re not brave enough for a tattoo?” Carver said, propping himself up to face Alistair, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

“Well… we didn’t exactly have much choice with the archdemon. And it didn’t want to stab me lots of times with a tiny needle. I got the sense it was more into shredding and dismembering and commanding mutant evil armies in the name of evil.”

“It’s not that bad,” Carver reassured him. “You could take it. If you wanted to.” He resisted the urge to make a joke about Alistair taking something else. It didn’t feel like the time.

Alistair made a thoughtful noise as he lay back flat onto the ground, Carver lowering himself back down beside him. They lay in silence for a moment, nothing but the sound of trickling water and calling birds around them, before Alistair lifted himself up again.

“I was thinking about that one,” he said softly, pressing a hand gently against the tattoo on Carver’s bicep and Carver swallowed deeply.

The tattoo in question was the one for Bethany, all of her favourite things twined together, a memorial inked on his skin forever. Carver didn’t need the reminder of her - she was never far from his thoughts and he had no fear of ever forgetting her - but he liked having it there, feeling like she was always with him. It had taken some time for him to be ready for it, worried it would feel like another reminder, another knife to the heart every time he looked at it, but it was something he was glad he had done. His sister was part of him and now everyone could see it.

“Does it… help?” Alistair asked and Carver nodded.

“Yeah,” he said and although he intended to elaborate, no further words came.

“I haven’t told anyone this before but I was thinking I could do something for Duncan,” Alistair said after a moment. “I still… I still miss him sometimes. He has a memorial now at least but it’s hard to visit, it’s so far away and we get so busy, so I thought maybe something else could be nice. Something for me. So that I can always have it there.”

Carver reached across to grab Alistair’s hand, his fingers twining through Alistair’s. He wasn’t always the best with comforting words but he knew from experience that sometimes Alistair just needed somebody to be there, to listen to him, to recognise and validate how he was feeling.

“I think he’d like that,” Carver said. “I can help you, if you want. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Carv,” he said, squeezing Carver’s hand. Carver squeezed back, lapsing into silence again, unsure if he should say anything else.

“Race you back to the water?” Alistair said after a moment and Carver grinned at him, pushing himself to his feet.

“Last one in owes a kiss,” he said, already halfway there.

#carver hawke #Alistair Theirin #carvistair #me: writes this in like a day #also me: still hasn’t finished the ones from like 3 weeks ago even tho I’m thinking about them a bunch #I don’t rly have well defined carver tattoo headcanons but this gave me a few more of them #idk if this even counts as a secret either 🙈#ANYWAY I hope u enjoy thank you for sending it <3 #gremfic

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whosxafraid · 3 years ago

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Borrowed Writing Prompt Meme Day 15 : Roots Verse: A Wolf In Wool Cloth || A Mortally Modern AU Featured: @croinagreine | @damhsagreine

In the grand scheme…so many things have changed or come to light or been altered by a single piece of paper. A single piece and what was written on it of course. And perhaps later in a moment of honest clarity it will dawn upon him that this was the moment everything changed. The moment what he understood the reality–he could never go home. Not while another sat upon the proverbial throne anyway. Because people could lie, but ink? Ink is permanent. Like blood on wool.

And in the quiet of this back room hideaway, a single finger taps. Unaware its pace matches the rhythm with the clock on the wall. It’s owned far to immersed inside his own mind. His own rage. His own mother that tries in her way to explain. To fill in the gaps. Apologize a little too late for keeping this from him. Even if it was all in the name of keeping him safe. Keeping his younger siblings safe. Keeping—

A resettle of his jaw. Teeth that grate together like tectonic plates. Safety. So much at stake. His mother had allowed fear to sway her when she should have run. She allowed comforts to hold her when she should have bitten the hand that fed her. Should have–a breath. Common sense and logic pushing its way into the conversation. Because this is Angus they are talking about. Angus O’Rian. Who’s reach might just be as long as the fecking crown of England. And in the moment he realizes how much risked jeopardy he is placing his mother and his sibling in just by demanding answers.

“Be i’ just me?”

A pause on the other end of the phone. A breath. Sound in the background he recognizes as the youngest trying to help an older brother make a sandwich.

No.

“How many?”

Three.

“D’rest?”

Ye d–no’ me blood, but t’ey moi’ne all ta same.

Teeth drag over a bottom lip. Catch on sharp edges. Blood bruises left behind. Three. And how terrible or how good is it he doesn’t need his mother to tell him which two of his siblings were blood to him and which were not. Green and milk finally breaking loose of the paper beneath a tapping finger as he shifts. Leans heavy on an arm and elbow upon the desk. The phone resettled at his ear.

Luka you have ta understan’ i’ weren’a wha’ oi’ wanted. None o’d’is were bu’ after wha’ happen ta Alistair…ta–

“Enough, ma.”

Because he doesn’t want to hear it. He’s read it all plainly in the letter laid out before him. How the escape had gone all wrong. How Angus had taken his own brother out because he’d gotten in the way of the real target. And how at the end of it all…a usurper sat on a throne that in all respects that Luka can see…belongs to him.

Another breath. Forgotten roots allowed to stretch. Bury into the soil of this new world. Some of which have already taken hold. He hasn’t been here long but idle hands and all that. And where he had sat down at this desk a would be soldier…he rises from it an avenging heir. One question, four words cutting from his tongue like the wolf he’s been groomed to be.

“Wha’ be me name?”

The singular bit of information she had left out of the letter. The one piece absent because of the weight that it carried. The roots that it would bind her son too just for knowing it. And he can almost hear the way her eyes clothes. The way her breath stills. Can almost feel the tremble in her bones before the harden from glasss to steel to titanium. And when the response comes it is as steady as the mountains of County Antrium itself.

Sweeney. Lúcás Cathal Sweeney.

#Nothing More Than A Villain || Luktober Writing Prompt #Wolves Do Not Lose Sleep Over The Opinions Of Sheep || Que

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hello--mrs · 6 years ago

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Steven Universe Podcast: Battle of Heart and Mind

I don’t usually do this but I said I would for the server, so here we are.

This episode included Rebecca Sugar, Kat Morris, Joe Johnston, Matt Burnett, Ben Levin, and Ian Jones-Quartey.

· The episode starts with the rainbow worm in Steven’s dream, who is voiced by Deedee. This is the last homage to the princess references in the arc. The worm is from the Kyanite colony and was brought to Homeworld by Pink, which Blue allowed, but then Pink released all worms in the ballroom. Rebecca mentions this links with Pink’s desire to be free by releasing animals from their colonies.

· This specific princess reference was to Jasmine (in Aladdin) opening the cage and allowing the birds to fly free. It was also a reference to Pink’s love of animals and wanting to set them free, which isn’t out of character for Steven either.

· For Diamond Days, they picked the most common princess tropes for Steven’s time on Homeworld and made this experience alienating for him.

· Rebecca states that the Diamonds are meant to exist as a body- the inspiration for the ship. Pink is the Id, Blue and Yellow are the Ego, and White is the Super Ego. This is represented in Change Your Mind where the collective mind experiences embarrassment when the Id demands they enjoy something.

· Kat admits that they came up with the new outfits by continuously emailing each other with ideas. Rebecca said they considered everything but there were some concepts that they really wanted, for example, Rainbow 2.0 would have a scarf and a jacket. It was important either way that the fusions would notably have Steven’s clothes and the gems. However, the fusions would hint at the new forms and Pearl didn’t end up having a scarf, but she did have the jacket. Later, McKenzie asked if the jacket was a throwback to Bad Pearl and Rebecca confirmed that it represented her independence.

· One of Garnet’s new designs included transparent glasses and Peridot’s glasses in the shape of a star. Kat came up with the idea for the shredded shorts and star pockets for Amethyst.

· All of the new outfits represent how the gems have changed and learned from Steven.

· Rebecca mentioned that Pearl has been ‘playing the field’ and ‘exploring who she is’, which started in Last One Out of Beach City.

· Lapis has gold accents on her new outfit to match the real-life gem stone. Kat said that Rebecca really wanted the sandals for Lapis and it makes for comfortable cosplay.

· Joe said that he enjoyed a lot of Garnet’s new designs. Most ideas were based off superheroes and had a more ‘knightly’ aspect.

· They confirmed that they tried Peridot’s new design with star hair but it was too much. Rebecca said that the glasses already change her silhouette and expose her gem more.

· Peridot also has boots this time. Before, she had socks because she used to wear limb enhancers.

· Mary Poppins and Bert were the inspiration for Rainbow 2.0. These concepts were made by Joe around 2-3 years ago. Sunstone was a newer concept.

· Rebecca said that all Garnet fusions can break the fourth wall, but with Steven, it would break it to give advice to children. The suction cups are also a combination of Steven’s shield and Garnet’s gauntlets. When creating Sunstone, Rebecca wanted her to look like a toy that you could stick in the back window of a car with suction cups.

· Alistair James auditioned for Rainbow 2.0 by doing an impression of his grandmother with a British accent. Rebecca said that Shoniqua was perfect and she knew immediately that she wanted her for Sunstone. She sounded exactly like how Miki Brewster pitched her.

· For Obsidian, they’d had her concept from the very beginning since she was shown as the temple. It was a hidden in sight visual that would eventually pay off.

· Obsidian’s sword is in the ocean, which is a part of the temple. It’s first seen in Bubble Buddies and seen again in Ocean Gem when the ocean is cleared. The sword design changed over time to ensure that all the Crystal Gem’s weapons could fit into the design.

· The earliest inspiration for White Diamond is traced back to the beginning of the show. She was inspired by the film ‘A Story of Menstruation’, which was made in 1946. It was a film by Disney played in schools to teach children what to expect in menstruation, and the narrator’s voice was a kindly older woman. Rebecca said that she found the designs really interesting and cute.

· From the film, the inspiration came from a scene where a woman cried into her arms but in the reflection of her mirror, she straightens up and starts smiling before going out dancing. The narrator says: “Don’t forget that people are around you and you’ll have to be more pleasant if you want people to like you”. The scene passes by and it ignores that fact that the woman was crying earlier, because she’s now seen being ‘correct’. This is the voice and the feeling that she went for with White Diamond and Homeworld.

· Homeworld is inspired by Busby Berkeley, and White is inspired by Hedy Lamarr in Ziegfeld Girl and Nell Brinkley drawings, all within an era where women were seen as beautiful pieces of furniture. Rebecca states: Women are like lamps, smiling and there, part of the scenery. It all originates from the idea that people thought it was lovely and seen as an escape from reality.

· Those early inspirations were also used for the wall gems- the idea that people are in the background as if turned to stone and function solely as architecture. These faces we see in the architecture are gems and that’s their function.

· White has always been associated as a mother, especially in terms of her storyline with Steven in this arc, and how gems are viewed as her children. This arc wanted to begin to explore her relationship with them.

· Rebecca says that White’s way of thinking is that she is everyone and everyone is her. She considers herself the default white light that passes through other gems, so when she sees gems absorb other colours from that light, she considers it a variation of her but lesser. In that way, she has no identity at all because she considers herself just light. She feels that people can be turned into her because they are all the same.

· Rebecca also stated that White is wrong about how she views the world and herself. It’s an antithesis to Rose’s journey- expression and repression. She lives in a delusion that everything is fine but it isn’t.

· Matt and Ben said that the whole episode was balanced by ensuring that every single character got their moment. It was an accumulation of ideas from over the years that they tried to fit into one episode, such as Amethyst greeting Jasper after she was uncorrupted. They felt they did everything they wanted to do before they left.

· All past episodes, especially for Diamond Days, were made to build up to the scene with White and Steven where she pulled out his gem. Mirror Gem is the first time they introduce the concept that a sentient gem can be trapped inside an object and that object is Steven. They’ve been planting hints that Pink may be trapped inside him ever since.

· From the beginning, they’ve wanted there to be doubt that Steven was his own person and have the audience question if Pink/Rose could still be alive. Even when the gem was pulled out, they still wanted the viewer to doubt if he was Steven. They planted enough hints that the viewer would think it could go either way.

· Between the crew, the hottest debates were about the storyline between Steven and Rose/Pink, about who Steven would be if they were separated. One of the most recent arguments was about Steven’s gem self and the fact he was devoid of any feeling, that there was none at all. That emotion came from Steven.

· Rebecca had planned the split perspective scene since the start of development and storyboarded it early in the process. It’s still from Steven’s point of view. Ian noted that if the show wasn’t completely from his perspective, it wouldn’t work. The split perspective was to also represent how torn and disoriented Steven was in that moment.

· Pink Steven is him as a default. If you take away his personality and emotion, he is empty. He’s been separated from his humanity and all that’s left is power. There have been nods to this in the past by showing how his power is greater because of his humanity and his capacity to love.

· Ian said that Rebecca has always had the idea of the final confrontation being about Steven’s relationship with his powers and that connection showing who he really is. Steven wants that human side of him, even if it slows him down, because it’s what makes him who he is.

· The scene of Steven returning to himself was originally written for episode 10. It was going to be a part of Giant Woman where they establish fusion.

· Rebecca confirms that James Baxter animated the scene where Steven reunites with Pink Steven. She met him by doing a drawing for his daughter’s birthday.

· The fusion sequence with the two Stevens was the ultimate princess trope- a rotating dancing scene specifically boarded by James Baxter. He completed the whole sequence himself apart from the inking.

· Ian mentioned that he wanted the uncorrupted gems scene for a long time. He said they always knew the arc would come back to the corrupted gems as that was the original conflict of the series, but now they finally get to see it through.

· On top of that, Ian went through every single episode that had a corrupted gem and designed their healed versions, while Rebecca added some of the quartz designs. He mentioned that the longer they were in their ‘monster’ form, the more they will look like that form, even when they’re healed. That’s why several of the healed gems look more like their original designs.

· Rebecca added that Ian helped with the fusion designs and their sequence, as that was a wishlist moment for him. He wanted Steven to fuse with all the gems in a row.

· Ian said that he had been most excited about Rainbow 2.0 and that Colin Howard had done most of the groundwork already.

· Rainbow is they/them and he/him, and Sunstone is they/them and she/her.

· Rainbow 2.0 is mixed with Pearl’s properness and Steven’s penchant for making jokes. Rainbow 2.0 loves to make puns and is a throwback to Steven’s puns in the earlier series. In the episode, Ian also came up with the idea that RQ 2.0 could ride their umbrella and have a rainbow shoot out of the end- a reference to Pearl being able to shoot lasers out of her spear.

· With Sunstone and Rainbow 2.0, they wanted to be able to show common traits in Sardonyx. The break in the fourth wall comes from Garnet, but loving to hear themselves talk comes from Pearl. Steven enables the both of them to embrace their silly sides.

· The ship foot falling on them was a slight reference to Monty Python but also a reference to the giant foot mentioned in Arcade Mania.

· Rebecca stated that the song Change Your Mind was not written for the show, but a personal song she wrote while fighting for the wedding arc. She was hesitant at first to include it.

· Change Your Mind isn’t for the end of the Steven Universe franchise but for this arc, Ian mentions. He adds that even though it was written for the process of including the wedding, it perfectly captures the theme of the show. As a coming of age story, Rebecca notes that this is something that had to happen for Steven to start making decisions for himself.

· Rebecca also admits it has been hard to write for Steven because he always puts others before himself. It’s always about what others want and what he thinks they want. However, he finally comes to a realisation in this arc that he doesn’t have to be anyone else other than himself or pamper to other’s expectations.

· Ian states that this arc was incredibly important for Steven’s development, in terms of who he is, who he thinks he is, and who others believe him to be. Moving forward, everything will be different from Steven’s perspective. There’s going to be more but it will have changed, because Steven has changed.

If I’ve missed anything out, let me know. Hope you guys enjoy!

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blarrghe · 4 years ago

Note

“Watch me”

I had so many ideas for this. Carver telling Hawke she can’t just go punch a Templar in broad daylight because he called one of her friends a slur? “Hawke, you are literally an apostate you can’t just go about accosting Templars right outside of the Gallows.” “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Wynne telling Kali she can’t use ~forbidden magics~ to right her body? “Dear I understand that your spirit is pained by this, but no matter how much you desire to change your form, these are dark magics” “Uh huh, uh huh, so, as opposed to regular magic, which is different how, again?” “It’s BLOOD MAGIC.” “So what?” “You cannot know the full extent of the risk! You cannot resort to blood magic for any reason!” “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Cullen telling Taren that he can’t simply forgive the entire group of rebel mages in one blanket statement? “Inquisitor, these are still apostate mages! Many of them rebelled against their circles and were fighting in the war before Corypheus’ involvement.” “Oh? That’s good, we need good fighters as well as healers.” “They could be DANGEROUS. You cannot simply let them roam the fortress completely unguarded!” “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

Maybe even Alistair, finding his competitive spirit as Zevran goads him (Zevran has ulterior motives) “Do you even know how to build a fire?” “I’m a Grey Warden, of course I do!” “I thought you were a prince. Can the princeling handle such exertions as the chopping of wood?” “I can handle an axe, Zev.” “As well as the dwarf? I doubt that.” “Oh yeah? Watch me.” “Mmm, gladly.” (Alistair, shirtless, chops several logs in half while Zev eagerly looks on before he figures out what is happening.)

But then I had a thought for something a little different. Make it soft? Watch me.

The pen scratched against the parchment, the sound of it harsh and scraping as Fenris put too much pressure into the stroke. The thin metal nib sliced through the page, a jagged line of ink ending in a small pool that seeped into the wood of the table beneath, and sputtered up to stain his unsteady fingers. He dropped the quill, a frustrated growl escaping from the back of his throat.

Hawke sat across from him, just the hint of a frown lying across her lips. It was enough. He took up the ruined page and crumpled it into a tight ball, pushing it away to join the others, which sat in a little heap on the floor next to the desk. He looked away, keeping his gaze fixed on the ink-stained wads of paper.

"It's alright, Fenris. Feather quills are stupid." Hawke advised with shrugging nonchalance.

"It isnt the quill that is stupid, it's -"

Hawke stopped his speech with one gently placed finger, which she brought to his lips and let rest a moment before softly tracing them, curling the rest of her fingers up, and pulling his chin into the palm of her hand.

"- don't you dare finish that thought."

He brought his eyes reluctantly back to her as she finished the soft caress of his face. It still sent shivers through him, when she offered him these gestures. Warmed his skin, left prickles of goosebumps down his arms. He sighed.

Fenris had escaped, evaded captivity, and found his way to Kirkwall; to Hawke. He had managed to learn reading and writing, and eventually he had even managed to find the words for what it was he felt with her in those quiet moments, and to speak them, and accept them as they were returned. These were the things in his life which he had come to appreciate as smart. He was capable. He could learn this.

Fenris took another sheet of the thin parchment from its pile on the desk and laid it in front of him. He took up the quill and dipped it carefully in the ink. This time, the paper did not tear, but the looping form of the letter emerged from the tip of the quill with lines that were disjointed and wobbling. He grunted with frustration again as he let the quill fall, dripping its excess ink into a messy little splatter where it lay.

"You don't have to do this, Fenris. The way you write is perfectly fine."

It hadn't been her idea for him to study and practice at cursive. That decision had been his. What had been her idea was to have his name put on the deed to the estate, next to her own, and he hated the thought of signing the document with some simpler instrument or stamp, of seeing Hawke's name finely written next to his own poor chicken scratch.

Hawke wrote in tight, quick script. Her letters and deeds she signed with swift and clean pointed lines, smooth curves, bold strokes. It matched her; simple, yet elegant.

He tried once more, pressing into the page too hard and leaving blotches where serifs should be. It shouldn't have been so difficult. He could write now, inelegant and blocky though his letters were, and with thin sticks of charcoal or pencils he could even manage the loose curves of calligraphy, slow though he was at forming them. But the quill was a different beast, needing to be dipped in ink lest it trail away, but if dipped too often it ran wet and the lines would blend. The metal nib was temperamental, picky about what angles it was held at and bending if pressed too hard.

Hawke picked up the quill with deliberate consideration. Pinch, and flip. She didn't need the trick, her fingers found their way into position around writing implements with just as much ease as his could grip a sword, but the technique worked as a guide for him. She had told him once how she had taught her younger siblings, taming Carver's heavy handed grip with little tricks and pencils that she'd whittled to be easier to hold. Stories like that one were sad now, where they should have been charming, with both Bethany and Carver long gone.

Hawke stood and came around to his side of the desk, leaning over him so close that some of her hair brushed against his cheek. "Here," she said, touching the tip of the quill into the inkwell and pulling it out with two quick little taps to discard the excess ink, "watch me."

Hawke scrawled his name out across the page in slow, steady strokes, the letters forming with lines that were even and smooth. Next to it, like some blushing schoolgirl, she added her own last name, and a quick little heart. And, like some blushing schoolgirl, Fenris smiled at it, mouthing the words under his breath.

#fenris #hawke #fenhawke #da2 #dragon age #dragon age fanfic #my writing #ask meme #writing prompts #serbarris

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laurelsofhighever · 4 years ago

Text

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 68 - The Traitor and the Nightmare

Chapter Rating: Teen Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read it on AO3

Loghain sat alone in the solar that used to be his wife’s refuge, where she had penned her letters and seen to the affairs of the teyrnir, where they had shared carafes of wine on the long summer evenings when he returned from the capital, and which now let in only grubby light through unwashed windows banked with half-rotten leaves. Around him, dust muted the colours of the furnishings, made duller still by the cold touch of the air that fogged his breath and congealed his barely-eaten breakfast of fried potatoes and bacon. The dreary atmosphere didn’t seem to trouble the witless elven servant the magister had sent to spy on him, but then he too had lost the energy to complain about petty discomforts. His mind drifted in and out of focus, memories and desires slipping away like mist whenever he tried to grasp them.

In a shaking hand, he held Anora’s letter tighter. The paper was creased and stained, ragged from being read so many times. If not for the intimately familiar handwriting, he would have thought the pleas to flee into exile – to confess, abdicate, and run – were just another ploy meant to make him doubt himself. As it was, the words confused him. She mentioned a Nightmare, and a change in his personality leading Ferelden to ruin, and while the accusations rang true, for the longest time he had thought it the effect of the war, a necessary withdrawal for the greater good of the people. Now, with his army broken and nothing more rigorous to occupy his thoughts, his mind drifted to the betrayals, the harsh punishments, and the desperate words of the Falcon in the moments before he ran her through. She had called him a traitor, accused him of being in thrall to a demon. Anora’s letter was dated after the battle at Highever, and Erimond’s spies had reported the Falcon’s survival, so perhaps the new favourite had stolen the queen’s ear, twisted her mind. Perhaps the story of the demon had been nothing more than a last attempt to preserve her own life.

And yet, with the shadows of his dreams chasing him into the waking world, and Erimond’s plans kept from him, could he afford to ignore the warning? If there really was a demon, and if it had already worked such evil through him, then what more might it accomplish if he flinched from his duty and allowed it to rampage as it willed across Ferelden?

The door to the hallway squeaked open. Startled, he shoved the letter into the folds of his winter sleeves as another one of the magister’s servants, more present than his elven guard, stepped crisply into the room.

“Master Erimond wishes to see you, Your Lordship.”

As if compelled, Loghain set aside his fork and rose from the table. In the moment before he moved, he blinked down at his legs, wondering how long it had been since he had questioned one of the magister’s whims. The stray thought was not enough to stop him following down the corridor like a mongrel on a leash, but it occupied him enough to keep his gaze from drifting to his reflection in the mirrors his wife had once added to brighten the hall. He no longer cared to look at himself; his bloodshot eyes and thinning, greyed hair took away what little was left of his appetite. His clothes still remained presentable, not that it could be counted for much.

He traipsed after the servant through familiar corridors until they came to the great hall. The windows had been shuttered but a gap in the roof at the far end let in the light and illuminated Erimond at the centre of a conglomerate of tables, like a gaunt spider at the centre of a huge web. No other room in the castle provided him with a hearth big enough for his experiments, or enough table space to run them simultaneously while keeping notes. Books and broken ends of chalk littered the work surfaces around him, bracketed by arcane equipment and vials of dark liquid thick as blood. The magister himself looked up when he heard footsteps, and in the shadows cast by the fire, the bruises under his eyes made his skin look like wax.

Loghain had little sympathy. “What do you want?” he snapped.

“Your opinion,” Erimond replied in smooth tones, “which as always, I value highly. Over there.”

He pointed to the end of the table nearest the window, where a pile of maps was laid across the wood. Wary, Loghain sidled past the magical artefacts to examine the top one, his lip curling at the vague, undetailed cartography he would never have allowed from his scouts. It showed, in broad strokes, the land south and east of the Brecilian Forest, with roads and features sketched out of proportion. Many of the place names had been roughly scratched out using a different ink, rendering it entirely worthless to anyone else who might want to use it.

“Thanks to our enemies, our original plans have met unfavourable ends, and we must turn to less expedient avenues if we are to succeed,” Erimond scoffed, scratching a note into his book, uncaring of the contempt directed at him, if he noticed it at all.

“Yours,” Loghain said.

“What?”

“They are your plans.” He licked his lips. “Mine were to keep Ferelden from the hands of its enemies.”

The magister paused in his work. His expression remained placid as he set down his pen, and his steps carried him across the floor unhurried, but when he spoke again there was a threat in his words potent as a raised whip.

“I require a location,” he explained. “A place of much bloodshed, where the Veil is worn thin by magic. This squalid backwater is not enough.”

Nothing good would come of it. When the Nightmare impressed itself upon Cailan, and then upon the Falcon, he had glimpsed its mind, its intent, and now he shook worse than he had as a boy hearing the thunder of Orlesian cavalry along the road to his farmstead.

“I will not help you.”

“You do not have a choice,” Erimond sneered. “Use your knowledge of this miserable land to give me a location.”

“No.”

Incredulity flashed in the magister’s eyes, before his face closed in a snarl and his hand twitched as if reaching for the staff still on the other side of the room. Loghain grasped for the locket around his neck. Whatever instinct drove him to it came unbidden, but he saw his chance in the instant of hesitation as Erimond stalked towards him, and felt his lips raise in a feral smile. He would not be yoked like a beast of burden.

Light exploded behind his eyes – a searing pain that brought him to his knees. A different, distant pain seized his hand as the metal rim of the pendant burned his skin, giving off an almost sweet, metallic odour that made his stomach roil. When the horror of it finally faded, his throat raw from screaming, his vision focused on the narrow points of Erimond’s shoes. A low chuckle fell from above, cold like the drip of melting ice.

“You are my creature,” Erimond told him. “You will be used as I see fit, and you will remember that for as long as I have use of you. Now get up.”

Loghain’s legs moved, fitful starts as he struggled to refuse the command, but his will had been too worn down for too long, and with a steadying hand on the edge of the table, his body pushed him to stand. The map was still in front of him. Its poor artistry drew his eye against his will, away from Gwaren, along the uneven line of the Imperial Highway, over the desolate expanse of the Korcari Wilds and a place so remote he knew it only through legend and hearsay. He watched a smile grow in a slow curve around the magister’s mouth.

“Perfect.”

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #alistair x cousland #cousland #f!cousland #loghain mac tir #teyrn loghain

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