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bedlamsbard · 5 years ago

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I was originally planning to wait on posting any of this concept because I wanted to add more, but since I’m not sure when that’s going to happen and also we could probably use some nice Backbone AU Kanan/Hera, here are a couple of scenes from the field AU concept. This is a Backbone’verse AU, set while Hera is back at ISB HQ and Kanan’s off at the Crucible.

About 2.5K below the break.

Hera heard the cockpit hatch slide open behind her and had to resist the urge to scream. Chopper, tucked up near the nav console, let out a low rumbling noise of discontent that the intruder apparently decided to ignore.

“This is a pretty nice ride, Hera,” Markus Anjali said, oblivious of Chopper’s reaction. “Why don’t you –”

“Don’t sit there,” Hera snapped as he put his hand on the back of the co-pilot’s chair.

He looked at her in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because it’s my ship and I said so.” And because it was Kanan’s chair, and she couldn’t bear to see anyone else sit there.

Markus shrugged in elaborate unconcern and took the empty chair behind it instead. “So why don’t you fly this ship more?”

“I work in an office, Markus,” Hera said, willing him to go away. “The only thing I’m flying these days is a desk. I can’t exactly park the Ghost in the HQ speeder lot.”

“You could still hop over to one of the moons,” Markus suggested. “They have some nice resorts. In fact, after we get back to Naboo why don’t we –”

Hera was saved from having to turn him down again by Chopper impatiently telling them that they had reached Christophsis and were exiting hyperspace. Hera suspected they were a minute or two early, but that would still put them in the system and she wasn’t about to argue.

They came out of hyperspace a few hundred kilometers outside the Imperial blockade around the planet. Hera transmitted the Ghost’s transponder codes and received permission to continue her transit to the planet, along with an approach vector that she was warned to stick to or risk being destroyed. Since she had no intention of deviating, that wasn’t a problem. Markus chattered at her through the entire approach, while Hera resisted the urge to tell him to go back and join the other agents she was transporting. Or to shoot him. At this point she wasn’t picky.

She spotted the Imperial encampment as she entered the atmosphere and descended down towards the crystalline planet’s surface. A landing officer on the comm gave her directions to her parking spot and she angled the Ghost down towards it, sliding into a spot between a couple of other nondescript light freighters presumably piloted by other field agents. As she was powering down the Ghost’s systems, movement on the landing field outside the viewport caught her eye.

Hera froze with her hands still on the switches, then blurted out, “Chopper, finish up,” and threw herself out of her chair and down the ladder to the hold.

“Hera!” Markus called after her, but she didn’t look back.

She was down the ramp even before it had finished lowering, racing across the field to throw herself into Kanan’s arms. He caught her with only one staggered step back, his arms tight around her as Hera pressed her face against his chest and sobbed. After a moment she leaned up to kiss him frantically, looping her arms around his neck to pull him close to her. He was clean-shaven, with scars on his cheeks and jaw that hadn’t been there before, and his long hair had been cropped short to reveal a notch taken out of one ear. But it was him, it was him, he was here.

He cupped her face between his palms, his eyes wide with startled delight. “What are you doing here?” he asked. There was a hesitant note to his voice, as if he wasn’t entirely used to speaking anymore.

“I was assigned – I brought a load of agents from Naboo,” Hera said. “And I was assigned here. What are you doing here?”

“I was assigned here,” Kanan said, echoing her. He kissed her again, then enfolded her into another hug, his arms tight across her shoulders. Hera leaned her head against his leather-clad chest, vaguely aware of his unfamiliar black uniform and the metal cylinder hanging from his belt. She was too relieved and overwhelmed by having Kanan here at all, not when she hadn’t expected to see him for months more. Or ever.

“Hera?” Markus’s voice said from behind her. He sounded utterly baffled.

She felt Kanan stiffen, but made herself straighten up and turn around anyway. Markus was staring at her with confused betrayal in his eyes, with Cado and Leshan just behind him.

“Isn’t that –” Leshan began, before Markus blurted out, “I thought you didn’t like men.”

“You didn’t think I liked men and you still kept trying to sleep with me?” Hera demanded, too startled by that to think about her response before speaking. Kanan went, if possible, even more still; Hera reached behind herself to find his hand with one of hers.

Floundering, Markus said, “Well – I mean – you’ve turned everyone down – and that guy you were supposed to be – I mean – I thought he might not be – uh – real.”

Hera stared at him, speechless.

“I thought – maybe you just – uh – needed to –”

“Stop talking,” Leshan told him firmly, seizing him by the arm and thrusting him back towards Cado, who caught him effortlessly and slapped a hand over his mouth when Markus made to protest. She stepped forward and said, “Hera, I didn’t know your man was –”

Still among the living was the obvious end to that, but she finished with “here” instead, flicking an inquisitive look at Hera.

“I – I didn’t either,” Hera admitted. “I didn’t think – I thought you would still be –” She glanced at Kanan, glanced at Leshan’s curious expression, and faltered.

“Usually,” Kanan said, looking down at her. If he was aware of the others, he didn’t show it, all of his attention focused on her. “My ma – my teacher’s been on this op with me, but he had to go back a few weeks ago, so right now it’s just me.”

“Your –” Hera considered their audience and decided to leave that for another time. “I have to go check in. Will you come find me later?”

“Of course.” He ducked his head and kissed her quickly. “I love you,” he added, his voice low, the words just for her.

Hera smiled up at him, giddy. “I love you too,” she said, then reluctantly released him. She watched him walk away, raising a hand briefly in greeting to Chopper, who was perched at the top of the Ghost’s ramp, until he disappeared behind the hull of another ship.

Almost as soon as he was out of sight, Markus burst out, “You and an Inquisitor?”

Hera looked back at him. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she said, and went to go find the camp commander so she could report in.

Major Beck, the ISB agent in charge of the operation, had clearly already heard about her arrival, and eyed Hera askance as she came into the command module to check in. But she didn’t comment on the way Hera had greeted Kanan and granted her permission to sleep on the Ghost, rather than assigning her one of the two to four person tents the other ISB agents on the operation were staying in. The concession left Hera grateful; she had had more than her fair share of rooming with other people back at the Academy and didn’t want to do it again. Especially with Kanan here.

“Besides, it will keep your astromech out of the way,” Beck said dryly, handing over a couple of datachips with the most up-to-date information on the operation that Hera was classified for. Chopper had become infamous at ISB HQ shortly after Hera’s arrival and had been banned from the premises unless explicitly requested soon after that.

Hera bit her lip, not certain whether to smile or not. “Yes, ma’am.”

As Hera was turning to go, Major Beck added, “Agent Syndulla. I would be very careful with him if I was you.”

Hera looked back at her, wondering if she was still talking about Chopper. “Ma’am?”

“Be very careful with that man,” Major Beck repeated, and Hera realized that she was talking about Kanan. “He’s not safe. He’s not entirely sane. He might have been once, but he isn’t anymore. A physical relationship with him isn’t against regulations, and I understand that you two have a history, but be very, very careful.”

“Ma’am, I –” Hera had absolutely no idea how she was going to end that sentence, but Major Beck waved a hand to dismiss her before she had to figure it out. She left the module feeling confused and a little concerned, then spotted Markus outside with Cado, Leshan, and the other agents Hera had ferried over. Hera ducked around the side of the module before Markus could look over and spot her, nearly running over a stormtrooper as she did so. His double-take as he registered first her uniform and rank badge, then her skin color and lekku, would have been comical if Hera hadn’t been so distracted; as it was, she returned his belated salute absently and stepped around him to hurry down the pathway between the command module and the one next to it.

She didn’t spot Kanan as she familiarized herself with the camp, ignoring the stares she got from troopers and agents who didn’t expect to see a Twi’lek in an ISB uniform. It was the first time that Hera had ever been on a major field operation – when she had been a cadet, she had been mostly used to the stares, but that had been a long time ago now. In the Imperial Complex back on Naboo she only seldom ventured out of the ISB building, and everyone there knew who she was even if most of them thought that she shouldn’t be there. At least here her uniform was proof enough of her identity; she had a recurring problem with other Imperials not believing she was one of them whenever she was in civilian clothes.

Since the Ghost hadn’t been stocked up before she left, she stopped in at the mess tent to get dinner, managing to slip out just as she Markus come in with Cado and Leshan. She didn’t feel like talking to them right now, since she suspected that the only topic of conversation would be Kanan. She took the boxed-up dinner back to the Ghost and sat in the empty lounge to eat it and read over the files Major Beck had given her, ignoring Chopper as he rolled around, cleaning up grumpily after the agents that had been onboard earlier. This was punctuated by loud protests that he was an astromech, not a cleaning droid; since Hera hadn’t given him any instructions to clean anything she didn’t bother to weigh in. She resisted the urge to go and sit in the cockpit or the gunner’s bubble so that she would have a view of the landing field, trying to make herself concentrate on the files. There was no guarantee that she would be assigned to this operation for any period of time, since she was mostly here as a glorified hoverbus driver in the first place; after the incident with Agent Sarkos on Garel it had been made very clear to her that she wasn’t trusted in the field.

She had finished eating and put the remains in the galley to deal with later when she heard the hatch open down below and then close almost immediately. Chopper grumbled, wary, and Hera scrambled to her feet, abandoning her datapad as she hurried to the ladder leading down to the hold. She had code-locked the hatch; there was only one other person who could get in.

Kanan was standing in the hold when she reached the bottom of the ladder, looking around as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was really there. He turned as Hera came towards him, looking tired and ill in the artificial lights in a way he hadn’t in the fading sunlight a few hours ago. Hera walked into his arms, holding him close against her as he pressed his face down into her shoulder.

They held onto each other, neither speaking, for what felt like a long time. Hera finally released him so that she could cup his face between her palms and take a good, long look at him, studying his features now that she wasn’t as overwhelmed by seeing him again as she had been the first time. He looked terrible.

“It’s all right,” Hera told him. “I’m here now. It’s all right.” She kissed him gently, then drew him in the direction of the ship’s upper levels.

They curled up together in the lounge, Kanan turning his face wearily against her shoulder like he couldn’t bear to look at her or anything else. “Do you want to talk about it?” Hera asked him softly.

He shook his head. “Do you?”

“No.” Hera pressed a kiss to his forehead. She could tell that he was thinner than he had been beneath his black leathers and that some of the scars on his face were old, some more recent. There were fading bruises on his neck beneath the high collar of his shirt, and a black mark that Hera didn’t want to look at too closely.

Kanan put his face back down against her shoulder and sighed. “Are you all right?” he asked her. “That other agent said –”

“I’m all right,” Hera assured him. “I’m bored and I hate everyone, but I’m all right.” She didn’t want to tell him about getting alternately propositioned and ignored, or about crying herself to sleep every night, or the fact that she had barely been able to look at the Ghost and had kept her feet firmly dirtside for the past four months. At least she didn’t have any new scars or bruises.

“Bored is better than some things.” Kanan turned his head a little to kiss her neck – not amorously, but as if he wanted to kiss her and it was the closest patch of bare skin he could reach without moving. “I’m very tired,” he added wearily.

“Can you spend the night?” Hera asked him. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but having him here and having to sleep in an empty bed seemed like unreasonable cruelty.

He nodded. “My master won’t be back for another week at the earliest,” he said. After a moment he raised his head again, his eyes bright as he studied her face, and added, “I missed you so much.”

Hera leaned in to kiss him. “Your clothes are here,” she murmured. “All your things –”

Panic flashed across his eyes, so briefly that Hera half-thought she had imagined it. “I’ve got clothes,” he said. “They’re just all black.”

“Not your color,” Hera said, and he bit his lip in something that was vaguely akin to a smile.

“Not really.”

She laid her hand against the side of his face and kissed him again. “Will you come to bed with me?”

He nodded, then hesitated. “I can’t – don’t –”

Hera kissed him. “I’m tired too,” she said. “Come on, love. Let’s go to bed.”

#cut scenes and concept writing #kanera field au tag #as always comments are appreciated

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himluv · 5 years ago

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Indulgence

Oh, well, hello there! Would you like some Solavellan? Yes? Well, me too! *offers fic on silver platter*

Set a month or so after Excuses. Enjoy!

Riallan stood in the gardens of the Winter Palace, trying to decide if she would rather vomit on the rhododendrons, or punch the nearest Orlesian in the face.

“Do try to look less murderous, my dear,” Dorian said from beside her. “You might not notice, but behind those hideous masks, you’ve frightened every noble in attendance.”

“Good,” she growled. “They should be afraid of me.”

He patted her shoulder. “Well, I do love a good political suicide. Let me know if you want any pointers.” He shot her a salacious grin, and then moved off to mingle with the gossiping Orlesians. She watched as women tittered and men scowled at the mage. They were curious about him; it was so rare to have a Tevinter at the palace. He was a novelty, something dangerous and exotic.

She was just a rabbit. And a savage one at that.

“He has a point,” Solas said from behind her. That would be his place this evening, and she hated it. She knew he was just playing his role as her ‘serving man’, a title she had staunchly refused when Josephine had proposed it. He had overruled her.

She turned her face just enough to meet his eye. “Ame tel’nuvena’ea min’an.” Not like this, not in some shem dress playing some stupid shem game. She wanted to burn the palace to the ground and take back what had been stolen from her people. This was Halam’shiral. It was supposed to be the end of their journey, the start of the elves’ new sovereignty. Instead it was a monument to some shemlen empire that built itself on the backs of her people.

“I know, vhenan,” he said. His voice was low, and the tenderness in it soothed her. “You are right to crave justice. And the surest way to attain it is to defeat the Orlesians at their own Game.”

She nearly groaned, though remembered not to at the last minute. He was right of course. She and Josephine had trained for weeks for this event, teaching her to carry conversations in lilting, cyclical patterns, never providing a straight answer. It was exhausting, but she had to admit she found the challenge satisfying.

And she had proved a quick study.

The harder lessons had been the dancing. Shemlen dances were so… boring. Every move was calculated, adhered to some rule. There was no carefree lifting of the spirit, no joyous leaps or claps, no pounding feet to the rhythm. Just lifeless twirls and limp hands touching across great distances. She was not looking forward to that aspect of the evening.

“Show them you are a woman to be feared,” he whispered, suddenly so close she felt the heat of his breath at her ear. “Find me later.”

And then he moved on, walking by as if they hadn’t spoken at all. She watched him go, so tall and upright in that ridiculous red suit coat, and though the humans were oblivious due to the shape of his ears, she saw the threat in his walk. In the way his hips moved as he wove between shem after shem too careless to see him. But it didn’t matter, the message wasn’t for them.

It was for her.

It had been a foolish risk, but the Orlesians were too self-involved to notice the whispered pause at her ear. If it hadn’t been for the ridiculous coat and sash, none of the party guests would look at him at all. He would have preferred it that way.

He had business that evening.

Once the Inquisition had been formally announced, he removed the hat Josephine had insisted on, then found a quiet alcove where he undid his sash and turned his jacket inside out. Without the glaring red fabric he had a better chance to walk through the palace unnoticed.

The Winter Palace was a lovely enough building, and the rumors he heard as he paced through the halls were delightful. He was certain Lady Nightingale would appreciate anything he could share, even if many of the names were meaningless to him.

Though he was an elf, and no human seemed to note the differences in his appearance from the other servants, the city elves knew he was not one of them. They kept their distance and cast distrustful, yet curious glances. They could not fathom what he truly was. To them his people were little better than a myth. A legend of a time when the elves had been the dominant race in Thedas, a fairy tale to tell sleepy children. But there were a few who knew him for who he was.

Of course he had his own agents within the palace. Not many, only two were working the ball, but it was enough to leave a door open here, ensure a window was unlocked there. It took less than fifteen minutes for him to leave the main party, duck through the servants’ quarters, and then climb a trellis to a second floor balcony. Once on the second level he found the third door on the right unlocked.

Within was what he’d searched for since he awoke from uthenera. An eluvian leaned in a corner of the room, a sheet thrown over it haphazardly, so that only a portion of the glass was covered.

Even without approaching it, he felt its power. The gentle thrum of magic called to him, as if it wanted him to touch it. Of all of the ancient artifacts left from Elvhenan, the eluvians remained the most intact. Though many of them were dormant or destroyed, those that were whole functioned no differently than they had before he’d raised the veil.

It was miraculous, and incredibly fortuitous for him.

He stepped up to the mirror and pressed his palm to the glass. Instantly the magic reacted, the glass liquifying under his touch and roiling with power. He focused, listening to the hum of energy and channeling his will into the mirror. He did not think Briala would come up with a strong enough password for the mirror to prevent him from overriding it, but he was weaker than he had ever been before.

He stood there with his eyes closed, nudging the magic of the eluvian, for much longer than he would have liked. But when the mirror flashed a bright blue in answer to his call, he grinned. Then he heard the echo of Briala’s password in the mirror’s power and laughed.

A blessing indeed.

After asserting his control over the eluvian once more, it was a simple thing to rejoin the party at large. Don the foolish cap, turn the coat right side out, and find a nice, inconspicuous spot from which to enjoy the festivities. By the time Riallan found him leaning against a statue with a view to the courtyard, he was on his third glass of wine and had just eaten a delicious little frosted cake.

Needless to say, he was in high spirits.

“There you are,” she said as she joined him. She was resplendent in a gown of gauzy white and sea-foam green, with silver beadwork on the bodice. What little there was of it. Unlike many of the gowns in the palace tonight, this one was cinched at her waist, but left loose to flow about her legs like fog. It made it seem as if she were gliding everywhere she stepped. The plunging neckline and high slit at her left thigh gave daring glimpses of her figure, glimpses he was all too happy to appreciate.

Judging by her blush, his attentions had not gone unnoticed. “I hope you’re being treated well,” she said. A servant with a tray of wine glasses went by, and he snagged one for her before the elf vanished down the hall.

“Reasonably,” he said and handed it to her. “The nobles ignore me, though I notice their curious glances. And the servants seem happy enough to fill my glass.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Solas, are you drunk?”

He snorted. “Hardly.” Then he considered it. “Maybe a little.” A slow grin claimed his lips and he let his eyes linger over her. He waited until she took a sip of wine to say, “I do adore the blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

Riallan choked into her wine, a sound startling enough that several pairs of eyes turned to look at her. And while she was the Inquisitor and a source of curiosity for the Orlesians, she was speaking to her ‘elven serving man’; surely nothing interesting could happen between them.

It was a sort of dare. How close could he get, how salacious his looks, before the humans caught on? Before rumors started in earnest? On another day he would have avoided such complications, but tonight, after his success and his indulgence?

What was one more?

He was gratified when Riallan recovered, took another sip of wine, and smirked at him. “Been to many such events, have you?”

He was lucky, and he knew it. She trusted him, believed all his tales of adventures in the Fade. And while not wholly untrue, it wasn’t quite the truth either. And yet the excuse poured from him as if by second nature. “In the Fade I have had many opportunities to witness such splendors. Throughout time the powerful remain the same, only the costumes change.”

The bell rang, calling the attendees back to the main ballroom. She looked over her shoulder, and then back to him. “Do you have any interest in dancing?”

“A great deal,” he said. Then, because he knew he ought to, added, “but dancing with the elven apostate would grant you few favors with the court.”

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. She seemed hesitant to leave him, as if being close to him anchored her in the sea of masks and lies. It made his heart ache in his chest, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to dance with her in front of each and every human there.

“Perhaps once our business here is done?”

She smiled at him, a slow secret thing that promised something much more tantalizing than a simple dance. “I’d like that,” she said, and then turned away to march back up the stairs and to the ballroom.

He did not bother hiding his interest in her retreating figure. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his eyes off of her even if he tried.

Riallan was pretty sure there was blood on her dress. She had tried to keep from making a mess, but the evening had other plans. She leaned against the balcony railing, taking solace in the solitude, and downed another glass of wine to settle her nerves.

She had done it. She had outed Florianne in front of the entire court. She had forced Celene, Gaspard, and Briala to work together. And she had uncovered that no one in this whole Void-damned country was truly innocent. Each noble she’d met, even the Elven Ambassador, had done terrible things in the pursuit of power.

And now the question must be asked, was she doomed to become one of them?

She almost had that night. It would have been so easy just to let Celene die and clean up the mess after the fact. She had almost agreed to the plan. It was Briala’s deceptions that changed her mind. Not because she particularly thought that Celene deserved to be saved, but because she didn’t think her other options were truly any better.

Maybe all together, they would cancel each other out.

Music came through the door behind her as it opened. The silence of the footsteps on the marble gave him away. She smiled at Solas as he joined her at the railing.

“I thought I might find you out here.” He had that silly hat on again, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She snatched it off his head and threw it off the balcony. Let someone find it in the gardens tomorrow morning and they could speculate what had happened. Something untoward no doubt.

“Good riddance,” she said.

He laughed, and it was the open, free sound like when he was in the Fade. “I doubt Lady Montilyet will agree.”

“You let me deal with Josephine.”

His chuckle faded as he watched her, and then concern tinged his expression. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, just tired. It was a very long, very trying day.” Well, night. It had been daylight when they arrived at the palace, and now the sun tinged the sky, promising a new day.

“You did well,” he told her. “I suspect very few would be able to convince these three to work together.”

“I’m not convinced it will work, but it’s enough for now. Orlais is stable. Corypheus will not gain traction here.”

His hand reached out to rest on her ribcage. The gown left her sides and back mostly exposed, and the warmth of his palm on her skin set her blood alight. “Come,” he said. “Dance with me, before the band stops playing.”

She let out a huff, part laughter, part exhaustion, but said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He swept her into the middle of the balcony, her gown swishing across the stone, and for a moment she felt as if only his hand on her low back kept her from floating away.

He spun her in slow circles, his posture formal and upright, his arm held high as he led her along with the lilting strings from inside the ballroom. She hadn’t expected such practiced ease, and at first she was disappointed. She didn’t want to dance another stiff and cold shem dance, but as he spun and twirled, his hand firm on her back, she finally understood the appeal.

It felt like flying. Her feet moved but she didn’t know how, she just followed him, went where he guided. It was a complete surrender, an act of trust that made her head spin and her heart soar. The song faded away, but he didn’t let go of her. Instead he pulled her close, his arms around her waist and swayed with her, dancing lazy circles on the balcony.

Riallan draped her arms around his neck and lay her head against his chest. She was tired, physically and emotionally, and in this tender moment she wasn’t sure what feeling would win out. As the weight of the evening crashed down from her shoulders, she took in a shuddering breath, battling senseless tears. Solas ran a hand up and down her spine and hummed one of Maryden’s slower songs, soothing her.

The moment overwhelmed her, and there was only one thing to do. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, hard. She didn’t have words for him, at least not any that could do all her feelings justice. So she poured it all into him the only way she knew how.

Solas accepted her every confession, his lips and tongue moving with hers just as easily as he’d led her through their dance. She lost herself in the heat of his mouth, in the wine-sweet taste of him, and the press of his arms around her.

They’d stopped dancing, and her nails scraped at the back of his head. His hands began to wander, his fingers exploring all the skin the dress left bare, until they were both gasping.

The music was louder for a moment, but Riallan didn’t think much about it. At least, not until she heard Dorian’s voice.

“I thought I’d find— vishante kaffas!”

She pulled away from Solas, both of them staring at the door to the ballroom. Dorian stood there, a wine glass in each hand, and a horrified expression on his face. He looked from her to Solas, then back again. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and then, “ah… I’m interrupting. Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to suggest we celebrate,” he lifted the wine glasses as evidence, “but it seems you already are.” He shot Riallan a glare that said she would have to tell him everything. Soon. Then he stepped back into the ballroom, taking both glasses with him.

Riallan looked at Solas and burst out laughing. For once his cheeks were just as pink as hers, and the sticky gloss Josephine had insisted she wear glistened on, and around, his mouth.

He gave her a half-hearted glare and wiped at his mouth. He pulled a face at the gloss on his fingers. “So much for keeping this secret,” he said.

That only made her laugh more, and he couldn’t keep from smiling at the sound. She pulled him back to her, shared another, brief kiss, and sighed as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we go home now?” She asked, but a yawn interrupted the words.

“I think that’s reasonable,” he murmured into her hair. But already his heartbeat at her ear was lulling her into the Fade. “Come, vhenan,” he said. “Before we cause another scene.”

She hummed, but stepped away from him. “I still think these humans could use a proper, elven scandal.”

His laughter followed her back into the palace, warming her when the marble walls left her cold.

#Riallan Lavellan #solas #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #dai #long oneshot #sorry not sorry #I missed them #fluff? did I write that?

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veridium · 5 years ago

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“Saving Face”

I was commissioned by my dear friend, @bitchesofostwick, to write for Cullen and Ellinor -- this time, in the Inquisition universe, which is a first for me! I have had a bit of time with them as awkward and adorable College students, so this was a great and fun challenge to draw from her amazing story, A World Alone. I highly suggest you read it if you have not already!

Isabella gave me a lot of creative room to take an idea and run with it, so I am delighted to share it. Thank you so much for commissioning me!

-- -- --

Summary: Sera challenges Ellinor to a game of strict focus and discipline. In the process, Ellinor discovers that while may be a nearly infallible player, but not when it comes to certain participants and their...rather silly, childhood memories.

Ship: Inquisitor Ellinor Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford

-- -- --

It is a game, or so Sera claims at the beginning of it all. Now, she is far from sure. If she was not worried of looking like a sore sport -- which she typically could care less about, but today, things feel different -- she would opt out. Only, it’s the principle of the thing: so simple a game. Or, “game.” Try not to laugh, or smile, while someone is telling a ridiculous story. Ellinor can certainly win, she never laughs. It is one of those things that hurts feelings and also provides a point of pride: “I laugh!” and also “no one can make me laugh if I do not wish to.”

Maybe that is how she gets caught up in this ordeal. For whatever rhyme or reason, she must win.

She makes it through five consecutive rounds of torture. Sera instigates, but the first story is one Ellinor’s already heard a half-dozen times. About a scuffle in Denerim where a man giving her trouble ends up hooked on a tavern banner pole, breeches up and arse crested, as she describes. A fantastic tale, but not new. Sera is impressed, but it only provokes her more, so she tells a second one about a bard who tried to drink out of their mandolin. Then, another about a mysteriously unnamed rogue who --

“Sera, I said don’t speak of that ever!” Ellinor cuts in just before she’s damned. The scowl is sincere when she says it.

Sera, snorting as she chuckles, grips even tighter on the ankles of her crossed legs. She’s sat across from her on the bench chair, outside the tavern. Cassandra passes by in-between stories one and two, quickly decides it is something she wants no part of, and departs before Sera can ask to play. Luckily, just as Ellinor is about to turn it into a sparring match to defend her own honor, Bull’s shadow overtakes them both.

“Heard from inside, something about a bard on a banner pole?” he asks, swinging his axe in a circular motion as if he’s come to train rather than tease.

Ellinor smiles slightly, but then quickly covers her ass: “Pause, Sera! To explain!” she says before turning over her shoulder. “Yes, it’s some kind of game. Sera said so. I’m still unsure about whether it is, or just something she’s got me tied into the pass the time.”

“Oh, sure, blame me, right,” Sera gripes, “all because I have the bright ideas besides mopin.’”

“I was not moping!”

“Right, you were doin’ one better. Daydreamin’ about--”

“Fine, fair enough, I was moping,” Ellinor gives in once again to save face. Shit.

Looking on, Bull clears his throat with a knuckle to his mouth, side-stepping away. “Boss, you have an angle. It’s not the cheeriest one, but it works. Don’t get too worked up about it.”

Ellinor gives a slight sigh, and rests back in her seat, knees spreading. “I’m not. I just want to make clear that--”

“Eh! I don’t wanna argue about it too much, it’ll only make you cross and make my turn harder!”

“Then maybe you should think twice before picking a fight,” Ellinor retorts, biting back a grin that betrays the concern. Fortunately Sera doesn’t seem to notice as she squints her eyes into space, hooking an arm under her knee. She has to have enough stories to narrate a damn lifetime. Bull withdraws completely, heading for the dummies. Talk about a work up.

“Sera, maybe you should just admit defeat. Where are the rules about how many attempts you get?” Ellinor presses, elbows cocking back on top of the bench backrest. She rests a boot toe-up, heel digging into the damp soil as she waits for another round.

“No, no, no,” Sera refuses, “there’s nothin about turn numbers.”

“Well, maybe there should be.”

“Why? You breakin’?”

“No! My concern is the other--”

“Agh! Perfect! Cully!”

Ellinor blinks so fast it nearly pushes her off balance, as all of the sudden a blank stare to the ground and her shoe becomes a frantic blur. “Cull--”

“Over here!” Sera is now waving, and what’s worse, she’s waving toward a man in crimson and steel and fur who looks awfully like someone she would call “Cullen.” Could there not be other people by that name in this entire Hold? Apparently not. Certainly not the kind who would look at her and Sera and think, of course, I must become involved in whatever irresponsibility they are sharing.

Across the yard he is holding a report, while two subordinates withdraw from his presence, making it aptly timed for someone to get his attention. Apt, meaning terrible. The heat in her gut and her face start to compete with one another for which will cook her from the inside out first.

“Sera, no,” she hisses out the corner of her mouth, posture rounding forward. “You can have all the turns you want, I quit, I--”

“No shit!” Sera then waves at her, like a pesky couple of bees, “Cully! Yeah, you! Get over ‘ere.”

She should have known she would be this way. She does know. She knows better than most anyone. But the way Cullen walks over, as if he is both cautious and curious -- in the way only he can be -- it’s clear Ellinor is not the pinnacle of knowing anything resembling “better.” Just him, and the way she’s oscillating from contained to confounded.

When he is but a few yards from them, and Sera is fidgeting with anticipation, he speaks.

“Er, yes, Sera?” he delays before the second part. “...Ellinor?”

Ellinor slides back even further until the bench creaks from the pressure, and decidedly turns her look to Sera, more as refuge but also resentment. “Sera, for the love of…”

“We’re playin’ somethin’. It’s good for your focus. Or, Ellinor’s focus, right now. Can you make her laugh?”

Cullen unsurprisingly pauses, wherein his face becomes a more similar shade to the fabric in his armor. Ellinor can only imagine how much she, too, matches; yet the appearance also endears her. Which can only mean one dangerous conclusion: if he says yes, he will be right.

“I, ahem,” he says, throat raspy with unprepared answers, “what sort of game requires that, Sera?”

“Simple: the game for her is keepin’ a straight face. The game for us is ruinin’ it. Make sense?”

“If I am to be honest, no. Not really.”

It is Sera’s turn to pause and be befuddled, now, as her gaze switches from them both. Ellinor is still fastened on her like a sailor would a star on the horizon, lest she fall prey to the creatures swimming beneath her feet.

“Come on, you don’t got stories?”

Ellinor bites the side of her lip. “Everyone has stories, but we don’t have to--”

“Then--”

Cullen intervenes, less apprehensive: “I’m afraid I don’t, as it were. Not any that come to mind. I’m afraid I will have to leave you to the task.” He’s polite, not dismissive. Even still, the decline is another instance of complicated emotion; it spurs Ellinor to finally look up and see his expression. He has his hands on the pommel of his sword, in a similar surveying shape as he would take before the war table.

Damn.

“We understand, no, really,” Ellinor tries to smooth it over before she can even understand what she’s trying to smooth over. Is it Sera’s disappointment, or her own? Is it the fear that he’ll think she was in on this, or that she wanted him to be involved? He looks at her and grins softly, breaking the first and ultimate rule of the ‘game’ even though it isn’t his to lose. It’s only hers. Fuck all.

“Both of you are no fun,” Sera huffs, tucking her legs underneath her completely now. “Fine, more victory for me,” she concludes.

Ellinor allows herself to breathe. As she does so, Cullen backs away cordially.

“I trust you will do well with the challenge,” he kindly says to Sera, nodding to her before looking at Ellinor one final time. “I hope this proves beneficial to you, Ellinor.”

“I do not plan on it,” she replies before thinking. It makes his grin flinch a bit broader, before he turns around fully. “Farewell, Cullen”

Only when she hears Sera snicker more does she realize the last part was too soft to be across the distance between them; it is also too sentimental-sounding for the light of day. Renewed in both her self-preservation and pride, Ellinor looks back at Sera, her eyes narrowing with hostility.

“Sera.”

“What? It was in the rules.”

“What blasted rules?!” she yells, hands out and fingers grasping the air like they had claws, “are you going to keep making them up on me, trying to get me to crack?”

In the face of her fury, Sera only shrugs.

“I see,” Ellinor exhales. “You’re not the only one who can make rules, then. New rule: no new contenders in the middle of the game.”

“Rule’s rejected.”

“What?”

Sera makes herself busy, or busy-looking, checking one of the calluses on her toes. “For rules to be passed you gotta have everyone agree.”

And that is how the Inquisitor comes to win twenty full rounds of the laughing game running on sheer spite.

Later on that evening, another council meeting concludes, and without many prying eyes Ellinor’s singular confidence has rebounded. Josephine and Leliana leave the war room first. She notices the same stature of red and iron, and slightly curling hair across the slab of wood with scattered coins, pieces, and papers. Nothing inspires stoicism like deliberating how to save Thedas. Not everything is a game.

Despite this, Cullen stands by like before; it makes her concentration ever-so-slightly bend from the spread of work and obligations.

“Inquisitor.”

Trying to maintain her preoccupation -- or at least the semblance of it -- she only glances. “Y-yes?”

“I, ahah,” he hesitates. “There was a time, many years ago, where I helped Mia practice cutting and trimming hair. Or rather, helped, by being an involuntary being her subject for her...attempts. Once, she sat me down in her room and began cutting short, but every time she cut, she would become more cross. Apparently my hair was not cooperating, and so she kept trimming it into line. Sadly there’s only so much hair to cut before...well,” a sorry chuckle leaves his chest, “I had no chance to see before Branson came into the room and started to laugh. By then, it was too late.”

Ellinor had pulled herself up to stand straight, incrementally hanging more and more on every word. What was the purpose of this?

“I...um,” she swallowed, arms folding. “What...what had happened?”

He looks more savvy as a trace of brightness, however tempered, casts in his eyes. His eyes then lower to the table. The smile lines on either cheek deepen. “Unfortunately, save for one part at the back, she had cut down most all of it. Branson collapsed to the floor laughing, and Mia took it as a terrible insult to her skills. But even she admitted later...well, years later, that it was ugly. I was no more than five, maybe six years of age, and all the hair I had to show could be kept in one tie all-together. The rest took months to return.”

Brows raised, Ellinor placed the side of her knuckle to her mouth. “So...so they made you keep the part she had not cut tied up?”

“They did not make me, she insisted and I being young and eager to impress my older sister obliged. She said it was the one part she got right.”

“A...a ponytail...with everything else short?”

“So short my head became burned by the sun if I stayed out under it for too long.”

“And...and when it was down…”

“You do not even want to know what it was compared to when down.”

That is the last straw. Shoulders lurching, hand pressing harder on her mouth as the edges of her lips spread to either side, Ellinor is undone by the mental image. A small, round-faced little boy with a tuft of curls on the back of his little head, running around and chasing after his big sister. Still looking for love and approval through loyalty, even when that loyalty does him so dirty. A hum, innocent but involuntary, bubbles in her throat: a hum of charmed humor.

Her eyes and his unbroken only make it worse, because the way his are emboldened by the sight of her, if even for just a moment, makes it all the more slippery. Slippery for the grip she has on composure that is infamous and yet not infallible.

“You...y-you…” she says, breaking through the subtle chuckling, “you looked like one of those fluffy...fl-u--”

“Lap dogs, yes,” he says, his smile straining, “you could say that.”

“I am just...I was not meaning to…”

“No need to retract, Inquisitor,” he says, “I know better than to believe that”

Her chuckling grows to where she uncovers her mouth and smiles. “I--forgive…”

Once again, he denies with a shake of his head. “Neither would I trust that apology.”

She goes on for a moment, getting it out of her system, while he stands by. As she calms she notices there’s a bit too much coolness to him. Not nearly as much blush or self-consciousness as she would expect in his vulnerability. Something...pleased.

“What...what on earth are you,” she tries, taking a couple breaths to pace herself, “what has got you so smug?”

He doesn’t reply at first. Rather, he looks off and walks steadily around the perimeter. When he is on her side, he does not stop to face her. He only slows his pace toward the direction of the door.

“Oh, nothing,” he says like a mention of unimportant detail, “I just won after only a single round, is all.”

Her jubilance turns to sour defeat, as does the taste in her mouth. Her eyes go wide. “But...b-but…!”

“Careful, Ellinor,” he says over his shoulder, halfway to the exit already. “You might make the score worse for yourself than it already is.”

Her face is hot from a different emotion now -- at least, mostly. If she cannot deny the way he prevailed, she definitely cannot deny the visceral nature of hearing her name in the sting of defeat.

“Agh! No, that is not the end of it!” she exclaims, boots loudly hitting the floor as she goes after him. And, to her credit, it most definitely is not the end.

Later on, through the hall leading to Josephine’s office, a scurrilous and acidic “that is not what the rules state!” can be heard amongst salty but stuttering voices. Whether or not such a dispute ever truthfully took place is left to rumor.

#fic commission #commissions #bitchesofostwick #ellinor trevelyan #cullen rutherford #mutuals #thank you!

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fanonorcanon · 5 years ago

Text

Dorian & M!Trevelyan

Dorian pressed his lips against the Inquisitor’s. Matthias Traveleyan had been smitten with Dorian for nearly a year, though he had been certain that he was only seen as a necessary annoyance, until now anyway. Matthias often dragged Dorian along on expeditions to very unpleasant locations, yearning to spend just a little more time with him.

Cole had read Matthias easily, months ago even, but had been sworn to secrecy. Matthias tried his damndest to push his feelings for Dorian to the back of his mind. Cole had reassured Matthias that no one else knew. Save for perhaps Iron Bull and Leliana whom he believed would not betray his confidence.

Another time, another life maybe, he often thought that that would be the only way he'd have a chance with someone as amazing as Dorian Pavus. A few times he’d indulge himself with fantasies of running away with Dorian, maybe go back with him to Tevinter after all this was over. Residing with him side by side as equals instead of being strong armed back to a Circle or something worse.

Dorian backed him into the wall and grabbed Matthias’ hand by the wrist and placed it against his ass. Dorian’s fantastic ass. Matthias’ eyes slid closed as Dorian kissed and nibbled at his neck. Matthias tried to hold back the cries that laid at the back of his tongue.

“Dorian,” he groaned. “I can't, if you don't stop-” Matthias shivered as Dorian's palm ground against his cock.

“Pedicabo ego uos et irrumabo,” Dorian murmured, his breath hot against Matthias’ neck. He could only parse out a few words but he was certain it was something filthy.

“Dorian, please. I'm gonna cum,” Matthias whimpered.

“Promises, promises,” Dorian chuckled and kissed him once more. He untied the laces of Matthias’ trousers and wrapped his hand around his cock.

After a single touch of his fingers to bare skin Matthias curled in on himself as he came into Dorian’s cupped hand. Dorian made a show of licking his fingers a little then pushed them into Matthias’ open mouth.

When the sound of blood rushing in Matthias’ ears quieted and he’d loosened his tight grip at Dorian’s shirt he heard the man laughing.

“So quick?” Dorian asked.

Matthias frowned and pushed Dorian away angrily then tied his pants closed. “It was my first time with someone,” he whispered feeling completely mortified and more than a little foolish.

“Ever?” Dorian asked incredulously.

Matthias nodded and Dorian spat a curse.

“I'm sorry, you took me by surprise. I would have told you-” Matthias began, desperate to grasp some scrap of his dignity. He could almost hear the rumors now.

“Matthias,” Dorian sighed and interrupted Matthias’ rapid descent into self pity. “You have nothing to apologize for. It only made me desire you more if I'm being honest. I'm not sure I can explain it, but your inexperience is… I find it very endearing. And that’s not usually something I find interest in. Surely you would have heard the gossip of the evil Tevinter Altus that corrupts innocent men if I did.” Dorian pressed their forehead together and chuckled a bit breathlessly. “We can start over if you like.”

“I've liked you for some time, Dorian.”

“How could you not?”

“I'm serious!”

“I know,” he whispered fondly.

“My feelings for you are serious, I don't want something temporary. But you always seemed so annoyed with me. I thought you disliked me,” Matthias said.

“I'm not sure you're aware of your many charms, Matthias. You're very kind and quite irresistible. I wasn't sure if an indecent man like myself-” Dorian began, his mind straying to a time he rarely reflected upon fondly.

“Dorian!” Matthias scowled. “There's nothing wrong with you. You're not indecent. I respect you a great deal and I think the world of you.” Matthias’ face grew red under the scrutiny of Dorian's gaze.

“I fear I may disappoint you, Matthias.”

“Never. You could never disappoint me.”

...

The door to the Inquisitor’s quarters slammed open and footsteps were heard stomping up the stairs.

“Matthias!” Dorian growled.

“Yes?” He asked warily.

“Is this some sort of game for you, to toy with my affections? You tell me that you're interested in something serious then never come to see me. Nor have you requested my presence. You regularly refuse my invitations and yesterday you told me not to accompany you on an expedition. And what is that behind your back?”

“Um, I was making something for you.” Matthias tried even harder to hide it. It wasn't finished, and even if it was he felt embarrassed to give something so homespun to someone as flashy and grand as Dorian.

“Oh. Well show me then.” He frowned.

“Promise me you won't laugh.” Matthias flushed a beautiful shade of pink beneath his freckle covered skin. He presented Dorian with the flower crown he'd made.

“Daisies and violets?” He asked and raised a brow.

“And clover. I went out yesterday to look for them, and I found a spell to preserve them. It won't last forever but I thought that anything was better than it only lasting for a day.”

Dorian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to fend off a headache. “Must you be so infuriatingly sweet? How am I supposed to be mad at you now? You with your ridiculously attractive body. Really though, how often are you mistaken for a warrior with those muscles?” He asked exasperatedly.

Matthias set down the flower crown. His blush had persisted throughout Dorian's tirade, if anything growing brighter. “It wasn't my intention to make you feel unwanted. I apologize for my error. I’d hoped to learn how to impress you in some way before growing more intimate, but love isn't something that I have any experience with. I'd had infatuations before, there were men in the Circle but I was too shy to approach them. And I didn't wish to embarrass my family by being caught in a compromising position,” he confessed. His posture was slouched, his tall muscular frame appearing smaller somehow. Perhaps he was used to trying to take up the least amount of space possible.

“And now?” Dorian asked, pushing up Matthias’ chin with a finger.

“I don't care what they think,” Matthias declared defiantly.

“Love, hm?”

“If you'll allow it.”

“How exactly were you going to learn to impress me? I am genuinely curious. Were you planning on asking someone like Iron Bull for tips?”

“No.” Matthias’ voice was petulant.

“Then how, amatus?” Dorian asked imperiously.

“I read things,” he replied.

“What sorts of things?” Dorian smirked.

“Things,” Matthias huffed.

“Will you not tell me?” Dorian teased and watched as Matthias attempted to sputter out a reply. He took pity and kissed his neck. Matthias shuddered in Dorian's embrace. “I'm not a nice man, Matthias.”

“What do you mean?” he asked and frowned in disbelief.

“I mean that I want to ravage you.” His voice spoke of restrained desire.

“Is that what you said before? When y-you?” Matthias stammered.

“When I shoved my hand down your trousers and you came before I could even get my mouth around you?”

Matthias nodded.

“No.”

“What did you say?

“That I want to fuck your ass and make you suck my cock.”

“Oh,” Matthias said, the shock evident on his face. Dorian leaned back and grasped Matthias’ hands in his.

“If you want to take it slow, we can.”

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“Just know that I’ll also be spending countless nights thinking of you while I’m in bed, alone, under the blankets.”

“Oh Maker, who told you?” Matthias cried and covered his face.

“Cole. He’s not very good at keeping secrets, is he?”

“And after he swore he’d not tell anyone! I’m never going near him again. If I don’t then he can’t read me, right? Is that how it works?”

“I don’t think that will work unless you can somehow fade into whatever sort of existence he has that lets him lurk on pretty much everyone, perhaps then you could avoid him.”

“That ungrateful little sod,” Matthias grumbled and tried to get out of Dorian’s reach, but his hands were held tight around Matthias’ wrists.

Dorian peppered his hands and face with kisses. “Come now, amatus, let me see that pretty face.”

Matthias peeked from behind his fingers.

“I want to get to know you better. I deserve to know the man who’s captured my heart,” Matthias whispered.

“The things you say.” Dorian pulled him into his arms and sighed in contentment. “I concede to my inevitable defeat, Matthias.”

“Defeat?”

“You’re much too innocent for a hedonist such as myself. I am undone with naught but a look from you,” Dorian pretended to swoon.

Matthias held him tight by his waist. He must have thought the fainting was genuine.

“Shall I do my best to meet you halfway or do you wish to be corrupted?” Dorian asked and curled an arm around Matthias’ neck. He tugged at the loose waves of Matthias’ hair while he ran his free hand down the man’s back and dug his fingers into the cheek of his ass. The movement pressed their hips closer, stiff cocks grinding together. “How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?”

“What did you have in mind?” Matthias asked as breathless as he was in the midst of battle.

“Let’s start simple. Kiss me.”

The kiss was chaste, not at all what Dorian expected but he was pleased all the same.

“Can we sit?”

“Where would you like to sit? My face?” Dorian asked quite seriously.

Matthias’ breath hitched. “Maybe the bed to start?”

...

Matthias pawed at Dorian's chest.

“Off, take it off,” Matthias pleaded.

Dorian stripped off his clothes with a practiced precision then sat on Matthias’ naked lap.

“May I?” Matthias asked, his hands hovered over Dorian’s bare chest.

“Of course,” Dorian replied, clearly amused.

Matthias rubbed his hands up Dorian's torso, his thumbs finding his nipples and teasing them. Dorian bit back a moan of delight and grinded his ass against Matthias’ cock. Matthias pushed Dorian onto his back and put his mouth around his nipple, his teeth teased at it gently. Dorian's head fell back and his hand found its way to Matthias’ head and tugged hard at his hair pulling him off. Matthias gasped, his lips pink and wet.

“Will you, will you tell me what to do, Dorian? I want to please you,” Matthias said.

“Venhedis! Have you any idea what you do to me when you say something like that?”

Matthias run his hand gently up Dorian's inner thigh, fingers grazing against the shaft of his twitching cock.

“I may have some idea, yes,” Matthias said shyly.

Dorian settled himself upon pillows against the headboard and spread his legs invitingly.

“I want your mouth on my cock. Now,” Dorian growled.

Matthias nodded and wrapped his lips around the head of Dorian's cock.

“No teeth and more tongue,” Dorian instructed patiently. “Very good.”

Matthias groaned happily at the praise.

“Oh you like it when I tell you how good you are?”

Matthias hummed an affirmative. Dorian combed his fingers through Matthias’ hair then held it firmly in place.

“Swallow.”

Matthias swallowed around his cock, moaning when it twitched in his mouth.

“Yes, just like that. Good. Alternate between that and sucking,” Dorian moaned, his fingers clenched tighter in Matthias’ hair. “That's enough for now. I said enough!” Dorian tugged at Matthias’ hair roughly, pulling him away. Matthias’ eyes were glassy and unfocused, his lips red from the friction and saliva ran down his chin.

“Please,” Matthias panted.

“You want to please me?” Dorian asked.

Matthias nodded emphatically.

“I want your tongue in my ass, understand?” Dorian's tone was firm, commanding even. Matthias shuddered with desire and nodded. Dorian loosened his grip and watched as Matthias pressed on his thighs and began to lap at his hole. “You like teasing me, don't you?” Dorian chuckled but broke off into a moan as Matthias’s tongue wriggled its way inside of him. “Good, don't stop. Get me nice and wet. I'll need to be if you want to fuck me.”

Matthias pulled away abruptly. “No, I want you inside of me, please Dorian,” he begged.

“I suppose I could accommodate such a request,” Dorian huffed. “Turn over, on your knees. Ass up, how am I supposed to get my fingers inside you?” Dorian hummed in approval. He slapped Matthias’ ass who groaned in delight. “Now spread yourself open for me.”

Matthias pulled his cheeks apart revealing his twitching hole. “Very good, now hold yourself just like that. Let me see everything.” Dorian slicked his fingers with a rudimentary grease spell and spread it down Matthias’ crack. His fingers teased at Matthias’ hole, the tip of one sliding in slowly. “Are you going to let me in or not? Relax.” Dorian slapped Matthias’ thigh with his free hand and felt Matthias’ ass twitch then relax around his finger. “So it's going to be like that?” Dorian grinned. “Put your hands under your head and don't move them unless I tell you. Understand?” Matthias did as instructed. “I asked you a question,” Dorian growled, slapping his ass, hard. Dorian grinned as he watched the muscle jiggle with the force and slowly turn pink.

“Yes, I understand,” Matthias whimpered.

“Good.” Dorian grinned when Matthias groaned in reply. “You really like being praised, don't you?”

“Yes, I-I didn't think I would,” Matthias stammered while Dorian slid two more fingers in his ass.

“And yet here we are,” Dorian murmured and laid kisses to Matthias’ back. “Do let me know if I hit too hard, will you?”

“I will, just please, keep going.”

“Don’t get greedy now,” Dorian growled. “You’ll take what I give you like a good boy.”

Matthias nodded and whimpered.

“How many of my fingers do you think are inside of you now, amatus?”

“Four, maybe?”

“Is that wishful thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Matthias cried. He writhed upon the bed and sought friction for his aching cock.

Dorian grinded his fingers against Matthias’ prostate.

“Fuck, right there,” Matthias sobbed.

“I think I could get used to this. Seeing you undone this way. Naked, opening up slowly around me. Do you want my cock, amatus?”

Matthias nodded and rocked his hips back against Dorian’s cruel fingers. Dorian slapped Matthias’ ass hard, the skin going pale before fading into a harsh red.

“Yes! I want your cock, Dorian, please.”

“You catch on quick.” Dorian smirked and withdrew his fingers and slicked up his cock.

“Make a mess of me,” Matthias whimpered.

“Is that a request or a command?” Dorian asked.

“A request,” he relied weakly.

“Relax for me, amatus. And don't forget to breathe.” Dorian held the base of his cock and slid it slowly along the crease of Matthias’ ass.

“Please,” Matthias whimpered.

“Who would have thought that you could be so shameless? Presenting your ass and begging me to fuck you.”

Matthias’ breath hitched and he rocked his hips backwards, the head of Dorian's cock caught on the rim of his hole for only a moment before Dorian pulled away.

“You do this often?” Dorian teased.

“You know I don't. It's just you, only ever you. Please Dorian, amatus, fuck me,” Matthias cried.

Dorian slowly penetrated him and let out a low groan once buried so deep his hips collided with Matthias’ ass. He reached for Matthias’ arms and grasped his wrists tight. Dorian pulled Matthias’ slack body against him with each thrust.

“Fuck, it feels so good,” Matthias whined.

“Mind if I use a bit of storm magic?” Dorian asked.

“If you think you can focus enough to do so, go right ahead,” Matthias chuckled breathlessly.

“Cheeky little blighter,” Dorian growled.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #male trevelyan #fanon writes fic

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Jagged

Chapter 28 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up - a little bit late, sorry!

In which there is angst. TT_TT

Read here on AO3; ~9700 words.

********************

“What about the tongue thing?” Hawke asked Bull eagerly. “Isabela does this rolling tongue thing – oh, but I suppose it wouldn’t be the same for you.” She cast a thoughtful glance directly at his crotch.

“Nah,” Bull said. “She did have nice tongue technique on other places, though. Like–”

“That’s all right,” Hawke interrupted. “I think I know where you mean, and I don’t need the details.” She snickered.

Bull smirked. “You asked. But she asked me to tell you that I gave her the reins.”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “She asked you to tell me – wait. You mean…” Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped in delight. “You’re talking about literal reins, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Bull said casually. “And a harness. She seemed to enjoy it.”

Hawke threw her head back and laughed. “Isabela rode the Bull! Literally! Literally literally, not just joking-literally. Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s marvelous. I adore it.” She elbowed Fenris playfully. “Did you hear–”

“I heard,” Fenris said patiently. “I think everyone on this side of Thedas heard.”

She chuckled, then turned back to Bull to continue their salacious conversation. On Fenris’s other side, Cassandra frowned and leaned in slightly toward Fenris. “This does not bother you?” she asked quietly.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Why would it?”

“Well, they’re – they are singing the praises of…” She cleared her throat. “I am surprised, that’s all.”

Fenris shrugged. “Hawke and Isabela’s liaison was purely physical. I would even say their friendship is stronger because of it.” Then he gestured at Bull and Hawke. “Besides, they may as well be discussing fencing techniques for how sensual this is.”

Cassandra snorted softly, and they walked in silence for a moment. Then Cassandra spoke again. “Fencing can be, er, sensual.”

Fenris smirked at her. “What novels have you been reading?”

Cassandra tilted her chin up in a dignified manner. “Yvette Montilyet may have recommended some titles to Josephine,” she said in a neutral tone. “And Josephine may have passed the recommendations on to me.”

“I see,” Fenris said, equally neutrally. “I expect a full report before our next strategy meeting, then.”

Cassandra smiled. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

They chuckled softly together, then segued into a peaceful silence again. Hawke and Bull were walking a short ways ahead now, and Fenris idly watched as Hawke playfully pushed Bull in the arm, inadvertently making herself stumble instead.

She’d been cheerful during their ongoing journey back to Skyhold. She spent the time bouncing between all their companions: goading Sera on in her attempts to rile Solas up, pulling Solas and Dorian into complicated discussions of magical techniques, asking Blackwall and Bull for war stories and putting a shiny heroic spin on their tales when they got too grim. She coaxed Cassandra into an in-depth discussion about Swords and Shields and somehow managed to rope both Varric and Cole into the conversation as well without inciting an argument, and she flirted mercilessly with everyone.

That was how Hawke spent the days of their journey.

The nights were different. When their long days of travel were done and they were in their tent alone, Hawke continued to chatter cheerfully to Fenris, but as soon as they lay down to sleep, she curled up on her side facing away from him.

He’d resigned himself to curling up behind her, pulling her tight against his chest and trying to draw comfort from the fact that she still pressed herself back against him and twined her fingers with his. But the comfort was weak. Hawke was so still and tense, and Fenris knew her rigidity for what it was: a feeble smokescreen hiding the tears that bled silently into her pillow – tears she was still trying to hide from him.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He had already made a second attempt at talking about Carver with her, on the second night of their trip. She’d been in the midst of polishing her staff and telling him about a ditty that Sera and Varric had started writing together.

“... so I suggested that they add a line about lizards in bedrolls, see? A little callback to that wonderful prank she pulled on Solas a few months back. And Solas was all, ‘you are being very childish,’ so of course Sera had to keep the line in.” She chuckled and inspected the head of her staff, then produced a very tiny wisp of frost before nodding in satisfaction and setting the staff aside. “Varric says it’ll probably be ready by the time we get back to Skyhold, so Maryden can sing it.”

Fenris nodded silently. Hawke smiled at him for a moment longer, then looked away. “Do you want to read some of this issue of the Randy Dowager to me?” she asked. “I stole it from the Griffon’s Keep. I’ll have to ask Josie how it got into the library in the first place—”

“Hawke,” Fenris said quietly.

She kept talking. “... because if she stuck it in there herself, our Lady Ambassador is far more filthy-minded than I initially thought. In the best way, of course.”

Fenris took her hand. “Hawke,” he said more insistently. “We need to talk.”

She laughed lightly. “We are talking, you handsome fool.”

She wasn’t looking him in the eye. He gently turned her face toward him. “I need to talk to you,” he said. He took a deep breath. “I am sorry. I… apologies are insufficient. The weight of this catastrophe–”

“Don’t,” she said.

He ignored her soft protest and stroked her jaw. “If Carver had stayed with Cassandra in the main hall instead of accompanying us, he wouldn’t have… he would not have been left behind. And that was my decision. I told him–”

She pushed his hand away from her face. “Don’t,” she snapped. “Just stop it, all right? Words and apologies and all that, they don’t change anything. I don’t need them.” She smiled slowly. “You know what I do need, though?”

Her creamy tone of voice was clear. Fenris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Hawke, please. I am being serious. I...”

He trailed off. Hawke’s shirt was off, pulled over her head and discarded in the blink of an eye, and she was leaning toward him provocatively.

He kept his eyes on her face. “I know that words change nothing,” he said. “I just…” I cannot bear this rift, he thought, but he didn’t want to say it. If he remarked on the slow-growing chasm between himself and Hawke, then it would make it real, and he desperately didn’t want it to be.

Hawke crawled toward him slowly. “I need you,” she said. She sat back on her heels and began unlacing her bustier.

Fenris longingly watched her busy fingers. Her words were something of a balm – a sweetened poison balm. Diverting pain into laughter and sex was Hawke’s modus operandi, and Fenris knew this distraction for what it was. But hearing her tell him that she needed him, even after what he’d done…

She tossed her bustier aside. She ran a thumb over the peak of one nipple and raised her eyebrow.

He tore his eyes back to her face. “We need to talk,” he said.

She shook her head. “You need to talk. I need you to fuck me.“ She shucked off her trousers and smalls and crawled onto his lap, straddling him and sliding her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

His mouth was dry, and he couldn’t speak. Her golden body was spread across his lap, naked and inviting, and her fingers were warm beneath his shirt, and this was the most contact they’d had in days. This was the most she had voluntarily touched him in days. Aside from the usual playful poke or pinch in public, and aside from their curling together at night, Hawke had stopped touching him as was her norm. She’d stopped holding his hand and kissing his cheek and pinching his chin in that fond little way of hers, and Fenris keenly noticed the absence of her touch — just as keenly as he was now noticing the subtle shifting of her hips beneath his palms and the petal-soft touch of her lips on his cheekbone.

She tugged his earlobe between her lips. “Fuck me,” she whispered.

He finally found his tongue. “Hawke...”

She nipped his neck and then his lower lip. Her fingers curved over the gently-swelling bulge between his legs, and he stopped breathing.

“Fuck me,” she said.

So he did. Fenris fucked her hard, eagerly meeting every request from her whispering lips and her arching body, relishing in the firm stroke of her hands over his skin and tangling his tongue with hers to silence both their cries.

And when it was over, Hawke rolled onto her side away from him, and the emptiness in his chest was an ache that the fragrant warmth of her naked body couldn’t burn away.

He was at a loss. He wanted desperately to fix the slowly-festering wound that seemed to be growing between them, but she’d never acted this way before. She always eventually dropped the humorous mask and talked. She’d never insisted this stringently on not talking about something – at least not that Fenris knew. It was possible she’d behaved in a similar way when Leandra had died; he hadn’t been around as much as he should have in the week after Leandra’s death. It occurred to him now that he ought to ask Varric how Hawke’s behaviour had been during that one terrible week between her mother’s death and the Arishok’s assault on Kirkwall.

“Fenris,” Cassandra said quietly, pulling him from his melancholy. “I wondered… Do you think Hawke would be comforted if… if I spoke to her of Anthony?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Would you be comfortable doing that?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she slowly nodded. “Yes, I think so. I… it is difficult to speak of him, but… it is more difficult still to feel that you are alone in your grief.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “I’m certain you are correct.”

Cassandra shot him a curious look. “Have you never lost anyone close to you?”

He shook his head. “Not that I remember. Not until now,” he said. “And even now, I… Carver and I were not as close as our connection to Hawke might imply. We saw him rarely back in Kirkwall, and even less after their mother died.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows tilted with sympathy. “That is unfortunate,” she said softly. “Anthony and I only grew closer after our parents’ passing.”

Fenris studied her from the corner of his eye for a moment before replying. “Cassandra, what happened to your brother?”

She gave him a small half-smile, then returned her gaze to the path ahead before speaking. “Anthony was a dragon hunter. He showed what a Pentaghast could truly be. I idolized him,” she said softly. “I wanted to hunt dragons as he did, even though our uncle forbade it. We would hunt together one day, brother and sister vanquishing the beasts of old.” She smiled at Fenris in a self-deprecating way, then looked away once more.

“He was renowned for his skill, and it turned out to be his downfall,” she went on. “A group of apostates wanted dragon blood, and they wanted Anthony to get it for them. He refused, and they killed him for it. In front of me.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. She licked her lips before going on. “I begged the Chantry to let me become a Templar. Instead, they sent me to the Seekers,” she said. She sighed. “It took years for me to let go of my drive for vengeance. At times, I could not breathe; the rage nearly choked me.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “I have known that anger myself, in a different form,” he said quietly. “It is… choking, as you said. Cloying. It occupies far more space than it has any right to fill.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, that is… exactly what it is like. Or was like, I suppose.” She sighed again and idly looked around at their surroundings. “I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if Anthony were still alive. Would I be a dragon hunter? Married to some noble fool, a mother of three? I cannot say.” She gave him a rueful half-smile. “I take solace in believing the Maker has a plan, but He is not always kind.”

Fenris half-heartedly returned her smile. Her words reminded him of the spirit-Divine they’d encountered in the Fade. He, Hawke, Varric and Solas had told Cassandra and the rest of their companions about their foray in the Fade, and he’d left it to Solas to explain about the spirit-Divine, but Fenris was still left wondering about the Maker.

He should have asked the spirit-Divine about the Maker’s existence while he had the chance. But in the grand scheme of things, what with Carver’s loss and Hawke’s determined and heartbreaking cheerfulness, it hardly felt important right now.

He shook off the philosophical thoughts. “You are a dragon hunter,” he told Cassandra. “You defeated dragons to save the divine Beatrix.”

Cassandra tutted. “That is hardly the same.”

“Then we will find a high dragon for you to defeat. In Anthony’s honour,” he suggested. “The dragon in Crestwood, for instance. It needs to be dealt with still. And Frederic can suggest where we might find others.”

She scoffed, but a smile was lifting her lips. “I hardly think dragon hunting is high on the Inquisition’s list of priorities.”

“On the contrary,” Fenris said. “The more dragons we kill, the more practiced we will be to face Corypheus’s beast.”

Cassandra’s expression sobered. “That is true,” she said. She looked at him once more, and her expression was serious but warm. “Thank you, Fenris,” she said. “For your kindness.”

He nodded to her. “And to you, for yours,” he said. “I am not sure that Hawke will accept your sympathy without turning to humour instead, but you are more than welcome to try.” Perhaps she will actually speak to you, he thought, with a shameful pang of self-pity.

Cassandra smiled. “I will. I hope I can bring her some comfort. As you have brought to me,” she added with a nod.

Fenris smiled, but with another secret pang of sadness. At least he was able to comfort someone about the loss of their brother.

They continued their trek back to Skyhold. Hawke continued to smile and laugh and coax the whole group into lively conversation, and Fenris continued to watch her easy smile with a painful sort of longing in his chest.

Fenris knew he wasn’t the only one who was concerned about Hawke. During their journey, he caught the worried glances that the others would cast her way, but he didn’t know what to say to them. How could he assuage their concerns if he couldn’t even assuage his own?

Cole seemed especially concerned. Their time in the Fade seemed to have affected him poorly, and he didn’t seem to be able to separate himself from the others’ fears and distress the way he did before.

“I want to help, but I can’t help the way she wants,” Cole said quietly to Fenris one day.

Fenris eyed him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“She asked me to search,” he said. “Flit through, fly fast in the Fade so I won’t be caught, but I can’t. Not like this. Not like… that.” He shuddered. “It’s closed, covered, can’t slip through. Not like me.”

A fresh spike of anxiety lanced through Fenris’s chest. “She asked you to look for Carver in the Fade?”

“Yes. But I can’t,” Cole said. He bowed his head in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Fenris said distractedly. Hawke hadn’t told Fenris that she’d asked Cole to do that. Why hadn’t she told him?

“I want to help,” Cole murmured. He wrung his hands together. “Not what she asks, but maybe what she needs. Pick it loose, peel it away, softer and smoother so it doesn’t fret and foul…”

Fenris frowned. “Why don’t you do that, then? Help the way you usually do?”

“She won’t let me,” Cole said plaintively. “She hugs me, laughing loud and smiling bright, but crumbling like the sandcastles they used to build together.” He looked away into the distance, but his hands were still twisting together in agitation. “‘Stop. I don’t deserve your help. If you can’t find him, then you can’t help.’” He looked at Fenris again. “I want to help. But I can’t.”

I don’t deserve your help. She was blaming herself – exactly as Fenris had known she would. But if she refused to talk about it, how was he supposed to convince her that she was wrong?

She was wrong. It wasn’t her fault at all.

It was Fenris’s fault.

“No,” Cole said firmly, taking Fenris by surprise. “He chose. Hands blazing bright, burning with faith: the Maker, the Inquisition, family. He had faith. That’s why he stayed.”

Fenris ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Go talk to Solas,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Cole bowed his head. “All right,” he said sadly, and he walked away, leaving Fenris alone.

They arrived at Skyhold the following day. They were met at the gates by Josephine and Leliana, and Josephine instantly pulled Hawke into a hug.

“Lady Rynne, I…” Her face was twisted with distress as she pulled away and squeezed Hawke’s hands. “I am so sorry for your loss. I pray that Andraste guides Ser Carver to peace. He was a good and loyal man…”

Hawke smiled and squeezed Josephine’s hands in turn. “He was, wasn’t he?” she said warmly. “He was very fond of you. I should thank you for being so sweet to him.”

Fenris watched her with an ache in his belly. She was acting as though Josephine was the one who had lost Carver, not herself.

She released Josephine’s hands and waved Sera over. “Come on, you, we’ve got business to look after.” She winked at Fenris, then hurried away toward the tavern arm-in-arm with the elven archer.

Josephine looked askance at Fenris. Her pleasant ambassador’s expression was in place, but the worry was still evident in the tilt of her eyebrows.

“Is she all right?” Leliana asked. Her tone and expression were neutral as usual, but her pensive gaze was on the back of Hawke’s head as she and Sera ran off to the tavern.

“She will be,” Fenris said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He was reluctant to discuss Hawke’s particular methods of coping with anyone else – particularly since her coping methods were not working particularly well.

Leliana nodded once, then turned to Josephine. “Shall we adjourn to your office?” She looked at Fenris. “We will need the Commander’s presence to plan our next strategic move, but a number of political matters have arisen in the meantime…” She smiled faintly at Fenris’s frown. “... and your counsel is required, distasteful though it might be.”

He reluctantly followed Leliana and Josephine to the keep. “The pair of you know more about these matters than I,” he groused. “It remains unclear to me why my opinion should hold so much sway.”

Leliana shot him a small smile. “Perhaps it is your status as an outsider that makes your opinion so important,” she said. “The fate of nations has so often been decided by those who have a bird’s-eye view. There is something to be said for the perspective of someone different.”

“The perspective of an ant on the ground instead of a bird, you mean,” Fenris said flatly as they reached Josephine’s office. As a city elf and a former slave to boot, he was, after all, the lowest of the low in terms of class and status in every nation in Thedas.

Leliana steadily met his eye. “Yes,” she said quietly. “As the Inquisition’s spymaster, I will always know things that you cannot know. But as an elf… you will always see things that I could never see. Do not discount the value of such a perspective, Fenris.”

He twisted his lips, feeling both grateful and awkward for her impromptu encouragement. He waved politely at Josephine’s door. “All right. Show me these matters that require my attention.”

They entered her office, and Josephine lifted her tablet and quill from the desk. “First of all: we have received petitions for aid from King Markus of Nevarra, and from the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium. There is darkspawn on their shared border, and each of them has hinted at a wish for an alliance—”

“We side with Nevarra,” Fenris said immediately. He sat on the couch in her office with no small amount of resignation. “What is the next issue?”

Leliana smirked at Josephine. “I told you,” she said.

Josephine pursed her lips primly, then made a note on her tablet. “Very good. The next issue…”

Fenris spent a long two hours with Leliana and Josephine. When he was finally released from his duties, he stepped out of Josephine’s office and bumped right into Sera.

She leapt back, then sputtered with laughter and fled down the stairs to the kitchen. Fenris stared at her departing back in surprise, then pushed open the outer door that led into the Great Hall.

Hawke was standing there, and her shit-eating grin widened when he stepped into the hall. “Sera ran down to the kitchen, did she?” she said.

“Yes,” Fenris said. He raised an eyebrow. “Should I ask what you are doing?”

“Pranks,” Hawke said succinctly. “Or setting up for some pranks, at least.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because you have a problem,” Sera said suddenly. It seemed that she’d run back upstairs from the kitchen as soon as she’d reached the bottom floor.

She leaned her elbow casually on Fenris’s shoulder. “Soldiers are going to get back from fortress thingy and be all mopey and arsey about… you know.” She shuddered, then pushed on. “They’ll be all up their own arses about the Inquisition, and I can’t have fun with everybody whinging. And they’ll fall on their swords before Coryphenus can push ‘em. So pranks.”

Fenris blinked at her, and she rolled her eyes impatiently. “It’s fun, innit? Hawke knows what it’s about. Or do you want everyone to think you’re too big and important and ‘ooh, fancy my glowing hand or I’ll throw you in the Fade’?”

Fenris rubbed his forehead. “I… wait. Are you saying this is for my benefit?”

“Obviously!” Sera exclaimed. “They might complain, sure, but what they’ll mean is ‘thank you for distracting me from the end of the stupid world.’ Are you in or what?”

Fenris glanced at Hawke, and she smiled winningly at him. A distraction from the end of the world… This was clearly Hawke’s reason for going along with Sera’s plan.

He ignored a fresh throb of sympathy and shrugged. “All right. I will follow your lead.”

Sera’s eyebrows jumped up on her forehead. “What, really?”

Hawke chuckled and pushed Sera’s arm. “I told you he’d say yes.”

Sera cackled. “Let’s crack on, then!” She ran off toward the rotunda.

Fenris looked at Hawke. Her expression was warm with humour, but as she caught Fenris’s eye, her smile started to fade.

She glanced toward the rotunda. “Come on, let’s catch her before she does something really bad, like draw a cock on one of Solas’s murals.”

Talk to me, he thought desperately. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a loud and anxious voice hailed him. “My Lord Inquisitor! May I have a word with you?”

He turned to see a Chantry mother hurrying toward him — one he’d never met before. Hawke groaned softly. “Oh, what fresh hell?” she muttered.

Fenris grunted softly, then turned to the Chantry mother. “Yes?”

“My Lord Inquisitor,” she panted. She curtsied quickly. “With the political turmoil put to rest in Orlais, our minds turn to a single question: the next Divine. We cannot answer it without the left and right hands of Divine Justinia.”

Fenris’s eyebrows rose. “You want Cassandra and Leliana to leave the Inquisition?” he asked blankly. They were the two people least likely to leave this organization behind.

The office door behind him opened, and Josephine stepped out with her tablet in hand. “Ah, Fenris, I’m glad I — Revered Mother! I am surprised to find you here.”

Josephine’s tone was very slightly hard. Hawke grimaced awkwardly and took a step away. “I’d better go. I’m, er, very busy and important, you see.”

Fenris watched wistfully as she hurried away, then turned to Josephine. “Does this truly require my attention?”

“No,” Josephine said firmly.

“Yes,” the Chantry mother said at the same moment.

Josephine lifted her chin, and the Chantry mother turned to Fenris with wide eyes. “Surely with the full support of the Orlesian Empire, the Inquisition will not be harmed by the loss of just two souls,” she wheedled.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “They are the founders of the Inquisition. You speak as though they are indispensable.”

Josephine held up a hand. “Please, Inquisitor, there is no need to address this.” She shot the Chantry mother a hard look. “The Revered Mother has been told that Cassandra and Leliana will meet the Chantry’s summons as soon as they are able.”

The Chantry mother’s frown deepened, but she finally bowed to Fenris and walked away.

Fenris turned to Josephine. “Does she realize where we just returned from?”

Josephine sighed. “She does. But her priorities are elsewhere. Do not concern yourself about this,” she said soothingly. “The Chantry remains preoccupied with internal strife, as they have been since we begun. I do have another matter to discuss with you, however…”

He sighed internally as he followed her back into her office. By the time he was released from her office a second time, it was late afternoon.

He looked for Varric, intending to ask for advice about Hawke, but Varric wasn’t at his usual table by the fireplace. Fenris made his way into the courtyard, and his attention was instantly drawn to the training area near the tavern.

Varric was there, along with Hawke, Sera, Cassandra, and the Iron Bull. And Cassandra was hitting Bull over and over with a stick.

Perplexed, Fenris wandered over to join them. Bull was grinning – or gritting his teeth, perhaps, it was hard to tell – and Hawke and Sera were cheering Cassandra on.

Fenis sidled up to Varric, who was sitting in the shade under a tree. “Training exercise?” he asked sardonically.

Varric chuckled. “Apparently.”

Bull grunted as Cassandra struck him again, then gave Cassandra a feral smile. “Come on,” he growled. “This is why the Qun doesn’t like women fighting. I should have asked Cullen.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. Varric whistled softly while Hawke and Sera booed at Bull. Cassandra narrowed her eyes, then swung the stick in a smooth oblique angle at Bull’s jaw.

The stick struck home with a loud crack, and Bull’s head snapped back. He stumbled back and hit the ground ass-first, and Hawke and Sera burst into a fit of cheering.

Cassandra smirked at Bull’s bruised and chuckling face, then deftly twirled the stick before handing it to Hawke. “Your turn,” she said. “I have other things to do.” She briefly met Fenris’s eye and smirked, then sauntered away to the annex with a distinct strut in her step.

Sera shamelessly watched as Cassandra walked away. “Phwoar,” she said. “Knickers’ll be dropping like flies, her walking away like that. Seek this, why don’t you?” she called after Cassandra.

“Hah!” Hawke said. “Just you wait. I’m going to make your knickers fly off next.” She smiled up at Bull, who was on his feet again. “Ready, big boy?”

“Give me your best, little Hawke,” Bull rumbled.

She laughed merrily, then slammed the stick into his belly.

He barely reacted. “Again,” he said.

Hawke hit him again, harder this time, and Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Would anyone care to explain?”

“Qunari training exercise to master your fear,” Bull said. “Been a while since I needed it, but the way you described that nightmare demon…” He shook his head, then gestured for Hawke to hit him again. “Come on, Hawke. Less talking, more hitting.”

Qunari training exercise? Fenris thought. He’d been joking when he suggested to Varric that this was a training exercise, but now that Bull had mentioned it...

Hawke struck Bull thrice more, then stopped to catch her breath, and Sera punched her playfully in the arm. “Come on, Hawke, again!”

Hawke wiped her forehead. “Remind me again how much longer we’re doing this before we get drinks?” she asked.

“Tired already?” Bull teased. “I knew mages were soft, but I didn’t think you were this soft.”

Hawke grinned at his obvious taunt, then slammed the stick into his abdomen once more.

“There we go! Oh, yeah,” Bull groaned. “Damned demon! Piece of Fade piece of crap!”

Hawke struck him again and again, and Fenris tried to stop his misgivings from showing on his face. Demanding to be hit over and over to master your fear… Qun-prescribed beatings to twist and push down a natural reaction…

This was probably the most qunari thing Fenris had ever seen Bull do.

He bit his tongue. It wouldn’t help anyone to point out that Bull was basically executing a miniature re-education on himself with Cassandra and Hawke’s help.

Hawke struck Bull in the thigh, then whipped the stick up to strike him in the jaw, and Bull’s head snapped back once more. He stumbled slightly, and Fenris raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

“A well-executed maneuver,” he said to Hawke.

She winked at him. “It should be. I’ve seen you do it enough times.”

Fenris smiled. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her copper eyes were bright, and for the first time in a week, he felt a little hopeful.

Bull burst out laughing and clapped Hawke on the shoulder. “Nice one!” he announced. “That was exactly what I needed. Thanks, Hawke.” He stretched his arms languorously, then jerked his head the tavern. “Let’s go. Drinks are on me.”

Sera clapped her hands, and Varric pushed himself to his feet. “Can’t argue with that,” he said affably.

Hawke smiled at Fenris. “Coming?”

His hopeful feeling swelled. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go…” He trailed off. Hawke was looking over his shoulder with a slight grimace.

“Inquisitor,” someone said. Fenris turned around to find Fiona hurrying toward them.

She nodded a quick greeting to Hawke and the others. “I was speaking to Leliana about the circumstances at Adamant Fortress. A terrible affair,” she said worriedly. “She said you had yet to decide whether the Grey Wardens should ally with the Inquisition or not.”

Fenris wilted slightly. She wasn’t wrong; the issue of the Grey Wardens was one of the problems that had been weighing on his mind during the whole trip home – when he wasn’t worrying about Hawke, that is.

“Yes. You have input, I take it?” he said. He tried very hard to keep the weariness from his voice.

“I do,” Fiona said. “I would speak with you, if I may?”

Fenris rubbed his mouth, then glanced at Hawke and the others. Hawke waved her hand dismissively. “Go on,” she said.

He eyed her longingly, but she shooed him off more insistently. “Go, go,” she urged. “We’ll be here when you’re finished.”

He sighed, then turned to Fiona. “All right. We may as well find Leliana and Josephine for this. They can pass the word on to Cullen upon his return.” And spare me from discussing this for a second time, he thought resentfully.

Fiona nodded and set off toward the Great Hall. Fenris glanced back at Hawke, but she was already following the others into the tavern.

With a heavy heart, Fenris followed Fiona back toward the keep. When he finally escaped Josephine’s office two hours later, it was with Josephine’s fervent promise that he wouldn’t be bothered by anything more for the rest of the day unless it was extremely urgent.

He made a beeline straight for the tavern. When he arrived, Bull and the Chargers were there, and Sera was giggling drunkenly on a stool at the bar next to Blackwall, but Hawke was nowhere to be seen.

Fenris approached Bull, who lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, boss! Come on, join us for a drink, why don’t you?”

“I can’t right now,” Fenris said with a polite nod to Krem and the rest of the Chargers. “Where did Hawke go?”

Bull scratched his ear. “Where did she go? She was dancing with Piper a minute ago. You know, the little Dalish one,” he clarified at Fenris’s confused frown. “Silver hair for miles, enough to wrap your fists in…” He grinned salaciously and sipped his drink.

“That was over an hour ago, Chief,” Krem said.

Bull raised his eyebrows. “Already? We should get some dinner, then.” He waved to a nearby serving girl.

Fenris turned to Krem. “Did you see them leave?”

“Yessir,” Krem said. “About an hour ago. She took Varric and Piper with her. That Cole fellow went along too. Said something about a tattoo?”

Kaffas. Fenris’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly where she was.

“Thank you,” he said to Krem. Without waiting for a response, he left the tavern and made his way back to the castle as quickly as he could without attracting attention.

He pushed open the door from the Great Hall to his and Hawke’s quarters, then bounded up the stairs until he reached the inner door that led into their bedroom. Sure enough, he could hear laughter emanating through the door.

He quietly opened the door and made his way up the stairs. Hawke was lying on her belly on the bed, naked from the waist up with her feet near the head of the bed. Varric was sitting on the couch, which he’d pulled up to the foot of the bed, and Cole was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a happy-looking Toby.

Piper, the silver-haired Dalish elf, was kneeling on the bed beside Hawke. A pot of black ink sat beside her, and Piper was carefully tapping the ink into Hawke’s skin, adding to the swirling pattern of black lines and spikes that already traversed her left shoulder blade and ribs.

It felt like a vice was squeezing Fenris’s ribs. He slowly walked into the room.

Varric was in the midst of telling a story to Piper and Cole. “... they grab this poor merchant’s assistant, and they’re holding a knife to her throat. Then Hawke swaggers through the door–”

“Excuse me!” Hawke laughed. “I didn’t swagger.”

“You swaggered,” Varric said dryly. “Anyway, Hawke swaggers up and plants her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve got something that’ll get your attention,’ she says, and she starts unbuttoning her vest.”

Piper chuckled. “You didn’t.”

“Hey, it got their attention,” Hawke said cheerfully.

“It certainly did,” Fenris said as he sat on the couch beside Varric.

Toby barked happily, and Hawke gasped. “Fenris!” she exclaimed. “You’re here! Come on, have a drink…” She waved awkwardly at a bottle of spirits on the floor, which – surprisingly – was still mostly full.

Fenris picked up the bottle. Hawke smiled briefly at him, then waved for Varric to continue. “Go on, then. If you’re going to slander me, might as well get on with it,” she said.

She was still avoiding his eye, and a lump of empathy and loneliness swelled in his throat. In one way, he was glad she was having Piper add to her tattoo; forced as she was to remain on the bed, Hawke couldn’t escape him now.

They were going to talk, one way or another. It was just a matter of time.

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” Varric reasoned. “Anyway, Hawke unbuttons her vest. Then she starts unbuttoning her shirt. The thieves’s eyes are growing bigger and bigger with every button that comes undone.” Varric leaned forward dramatically. “Then Hawke reaches into her bustier. And what does she pull out?”

Cole’s eyes were huge. “Was it a nug?” he asked.

Hawke and Piper burst out laughing, and Varric shot Cole an odd look. “A… what? Kid, you think a nug can fit inside of a woman’s bustier?”

“I don’t know,” Cole said earnestly. “I’ve never tried. Is it warm and dark enough?”

Hawke and Piper laughed harder. Varric stared at Cole for a moment, then scratched his ear. “Well, I’m not getting into that today.”

Fenris decided to jump in and get the story moving. “She pulled out a flask and offered it to the thieves,” he said.

Hawke grinned at him. “Ooh, storytelling with Fenris. Please, go on. Let’s hear the rest of the tale in that gorgeous voice of yours.”

Her smile was wicked and bright. The skin on her back was inflamed and red where Piper was working on it. Fenris took a sip from the bottle, swallowing the lump in his throat as he did.

He shook his head. “I will leave this job to Varric. He will do your actions justice.”

Hawke pouted playfully. “Spoilsport,” she said, then looked at Varric again. “All right, Varric, go on.”

Varric smirked at Piper. “Hawke pulls out a flask and she goes, ‘a little brandy, gentlemen? It’s like mother’s milk to me’. Then she did that girly thing with her arms–”

“– pushing her breasts together with upper arms so her bosom looks more prominent,” Fenris put in.

Hawke and Piper burst out laughing again, and Varric chuckled. “Yeah, that,” he said. “So the thieves are gaping at her flask and at her, uh, assets. And while they’re busy trying to get their heads back in order, Aveline and the city guard came bursting in. They arrested the thieves, and Hawke didn’t get arrested for public indecency. Not that time, at least.”

“That time?” Piper exclaimed. “Well, now I need to hear about the time she did get arrested.” She playfully poked Hawke on an unmarked part of her back.

Hawke laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Pipes, you’ll be hearing lots of stories before the night is through.” She reached for the bottle in Fenris’s hand.

He handed it to her. But as she wrapped her fingers around it, he reached out and took hold of her wrist.

She looked up and met his eyes. Fenris stared at her, keeping his eyes locked on her face until her smile started to melt away.

There. There she was: beneath the incessant lovely smile and the incessant brilliant laughter and the unbearable fucking distance she was placing between them, Rynne was there, genuine and raw and pained, and Fenris held her gaze and her wrist until she looked away from him.

He released her wrist. She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a long drink, then placed it on the ground at the foot of the bed and smiled. “Tell us another story, Varric,” she said.

“As the lady commands,” he drawled. “Maybe I’ll tell a story about someone else this time.”

Hawke snickered. “If you insist. I’m so entertaining, though! But I suppose it’s not always about me.” She folded her arms and rested her cheek on her arms.

Her tone was cheerful and glib, and to someone who didn’t know better, her words were innocent enough. To Fenris and Varric, however…

They exchanged a quick worried glance. Then Varric smiled at Piper. “I’ll tell you one that Hawke told me when we first met,” he said. “When she was thirteen or so, she was in the Lothering market with the family. Hawke, as usual, was marching to the beat of her own drum, and she went off on her own to try and buy some sweets with a copper she swiped from her mother’s purse.”

Hawke snorted and lifted her face from her arms. “Oh yeah. This one.” She chuckled. “I can’t believe you remember this one.”

Varric smirked at her before continuing his tale to Piper. “So there Hawke was, strolling through the market all pleased with herself for her cleverness–”

“I really was,” Hawke interjected helpfully.

“–when she was approached by some unsavoury-looking fellows who started getting fresh with her.”

Piper curled her lip. “Getting fresh with a thirteen-year-old? That’s disgusting.”

Varric nodded sagely. “Hawke’s little brother thought so too, because a minute later he came bulling in – all fifty pounds of him. Knocked one of those guys over from sheer surprise, then started swinging his little fists like he had nothing to lose.”

Fenris glanced at Hawke. She was beaming at Varric. “Bloody Carver,” she said fondly. “And he thought I was impulsive.” She smiled over her shoulder at Piper. “I ended up having to use a bit of sneaky magic to distract the boys who attacked me. Then Carv and I had to run out of there like our asses were on fire.”

Varric chuckled. “And then he scolded you for running off in the first place, right?”

“Exactly!” Hawke exclaimed. “But that was my baby brother. Always getting into scraps that were far bigger than he could handle. Until he grew up and became the big one, that is.” She smiled up at Piper. “I know you only met him a couple times, but you remember how tall he was, yes?” She chuckled and rested her chin on her folded arms. “It still boggles my mind how big and tall he got. Odd to think he used to be shorter than me. Fuck me if I know how he got so damned tall.”

She was smiling still. As Fenris watched, a tear trickled down her cheek.

He shifted forward on the couch, then reached out and wiped her tear away with his thumb. She met his eye briefly — just long enough for him to see the tears collecting there — then laid her cheek on her folded arms.

Fenris looked up at Piper, who was watching Hawke with a stricken look on her face. Piper met his eye, then nodded subtly and flicked Hawke’s ear. “I’m running out of ink here, lethallan. I’ll come back tomorrow if you want?”

Hawke sniffled quietly and nodded. “That’s great. Thanks, Pipes,” she said in a muffled voice.

Piper shot Fenris an apologetic look, then slid off the bed with her tattoo implements in hand and slipped away toward the stairs.

Once she was gone, Varric leaned forward on his elbows. “Hey,” he said gently. “You wanna talk about him?”

Hawke roughly wiped her face on her arms. “And say what? He faced off against a demon that was more than ten times his size. I think that says everything that needs to be said: he was a big brawny ass.” She laughed.

She wasn’t making eye contact with any of them now. With a painfully aching heart, Fenris reached out and tucked a lock of dark tufty hair behind her ear.

She pressed her lips together hard. Then Cole spoke up from his spot on the floor. “So bloody scared, but this is right. I’m doing something right, something important, something to be proud of. Just wish she knew I didn’t mean the stuff I said. Wish she knew it’s not her fault. Not Bethany, not Mother, not this.”

Hawke’s face crumpled. “Fuck,” she whimpered, and she buried her face in her arms.

A silent sob wracked her half-naked body. Fenris met Varric’s eye and nodded subtly toward the stairs, then rose from the couch and sat beside Hawke on the bed.

Varric quietly ushered Cole to his feet and away toward the stairs. Toby gave Fenris a pitiful look, then followed Cole and Varric with his tail between his legs. Fenris, meanwhile, was stroking Hawke’s unmarked right shoulder and back.

He listened for the soft snick of the door closing as Varric and Cole left. Then he looked down at Hawke’s prone form. “You are not to blame for anything that happened,” he told her quietly.

She shook her head and sobbed out loud, then covered her head with one arm, and Fenris felt an answering burn of tears in his own eyes. He desperately wanted to hold her, but her freshly tattooed skin was red and raw, puffy with irritation and pain, and he didn’t want to hurt her more.

He slid off of the bed and fetched a pot of elfroot salve from their writing desk, then settled beside her on the bed once more. He unscrewed the lid from the pot and began carefully smoothing the salve onto Hawke’s reddened skin.

She sobbed again. “Fenris…” she pleaded.

He inhaled slowly to control his own distress. “I’m right here,” he murmured. He continued massaging the herbal salve into her fresh tattoo, gently smoothing his fingers over her shaking shoulders.

She gasped in a shaky breath. “He probably thought I hated him. I was so mean to him.”

“He didn’t think you hated him,” Fenris said.

“You don’t know that,” she retorted. She choked back another sob. “I told him to leave the Inquisition. What kind of bitch–”

“He did not think you hated him,” Fenris said, more insistently this time. “And he loved you. He told me so.” He stroked another dab of salve along the line of her spine.

“He said that?” she asked in a tiny voice. “We’re talking about the same Carver? Big beefy Templar? He… he told you he... loved me?”

“Yes,” Fenris said quietly.

Hawke was silent for a long moment. Fenris continued to caress her back, but a moment later, her shoulders started to shake again.

Fenris swallowed hard, then tugged gently on her arm. “Come here,” he whispered.

She slowly pushed herself upright, and Fenris pulled her close. A moment later she was curled in his lap and sobbing uninhibitedly into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, heedless of her salve-slicked skin as he cradled her in his arms.

She clenched her fingers in his tunic and tried to catch her breath. “It’s my f-fault,” she cried. “It’s my fault he got left behind.”

Fenris closed his eyes in defeat. He knew she’d been thinking this all along.

He stroked her hair. “No,” he said. “This is not your fault.”

“It is!” she insisted. She hiccupped and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “If I was stronger, if I could have held my f-fucking light cage for just a minute longer, then–”

“You are strong,” Fenris said fiercely. “You were nearly overextended. It was not your–”

She smacked his chest to silence him. “He got left behind because I needed to be protected!” she shouted. “It’s my fucking fault!”

Fenris shook his head. “He died because of my orders. I told him to come with us, and I… I allowed him to stay behind.” He took a deep and bracing breath. “It is my fault, Hawke. You know that. That’s why you have been angry with me.”

She pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “I’m not–! What... Fenris, I’m not angry at you,” she said.

He tilted his head and didn’t speak, and she dropped her gaze. “All right, I… I was at first,” she admitted. “But… Fenris, I don’t blame you, I really don’t. I don’t,” she insisted, as he continued to gaze at her in silence. “It – your orders – you gave good orders when you told Carv to come with us. He’s – he was…” She swallowed hard. “He was a good warrior. A great warrior. You weren’t wrong to bring him along. You couldn’t have known we’d fall into the fucking Fade.”

He shook his head. She was tiptoeing around him like she had all week, and it was the last thing he wanted. “I understand your anger. But…” He broke off, uncertain if he should continue. They weren’t supposed to be talking about Fenris’s feelings, after all. They were supposed to be talking about Carver, because Hawke was grieving.

After a full week of pushing her misery down, hiding it behind her beautiful smiling mask and channeling it into the fresh black ink on her skin, she was finally grieving. This wasn’t the time for Fenris to tell her how utterly alone he’d felt all week.

The words poured unbidden from his lips all the same. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t talk to me,” he said. “You have never… withdrawn from me before. You ought to tell me if you are angry. Yell at me if you must, just…” He took a painful breath. “Don’t… turn away from me.”

Her eyebrows rose with distress. “But – Fenris, I’m not angry anymore. I’m not!”

“You have been avoiding me all week,” he pointed out.

Her coppery eyes went even wider. “I was trying to spare you!”

He frowned. “Spare me what?”

“This!” she exclaimed. She waved vaguely at herself. “This bullshit. All of this. The whinging and the tattoo and the stupid crying…” She drew a tremulous breath. “This is the last thing you need. Fuck, it’s the last thing I need. I’m supposed to be leading the mages with Solas and Fiona, and you’re supposed to be running the Inquisition—”

“This is why you have been avoiding me?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t trying to avoid you!” she said. She hiccupped, and another tear snaked its way down her cheek. “I was — I just wanted — you’re busy, you have the Wardens to worry about and Josie and Leliana need you to make decisions and all that, and you’re the Inquisitor—”

He clasped her face in his palms. “I am yours.” he said fiercely. “I… Rynne, listen to me. You are what matters most. Above the Inquisition, above the… the politics, and the Chantry and this blighted war. You are what I hold above everything else. How could you possibly think otherwise? How could you dare to think I don’t have time for this?”

He was almost feeling angry now, but his growing ire immediately melted when she burst out another sob.

A fresh wave of tears ran down her cheeks. “Why?” she demanded.

He stared at her in consternation. “Why what?”

“Why me?” she snapped. “I’m not... I’m nothing special. Just some stupid girl from Lothering who couldn’t even keep her own brother safe. I let Carver die, and I watched my mother die and I let the Chantry get blown up by letting Anders do whatever the fuck he felt like—”

Her fingers were creeping around to the left side of her ribs. Fenris grabbed her hand. “Stop,” he begged. “Stop this.”

She sobbed and tried to pull her hand free. “The Nightmare was right,” she cried. “They’re dead because of my stupid decisions, or — or because I was impulsive and w-weak—”

His chest was aching. He inhaled deeply through the pain and held her hand more tightly. “Hawke...”

“It’s just you and me now,” she said. She stared up at him, face flushed and stained with tears. “We’re the only Hawkes left, Fenris.” Her bloodshot eyes grew larger, and she twisted her fingers more tightly in his tunic. “It’s just… you’re the only one left.”

Fear. Her expression was a horrible, perfect portrait of fear.

A painful burn of sorrow rose at the back of his throat and the backs of his eyes. He forced the tears back and met her terrified gaze as steadily as he could.

“Nothing will happen to me,” he told her.

She tried to shake her head, but Fenris took her face in his hands. “Nothing will happen. I promise you that,” he said.

Another trail of tears poured from her eyes. “You can’t make that promise,” she said plaintively.

“I can. I am saying it now. I will never leave you,” he said. “Nothing will tear me from your side. You and I… We walk this world together, and nothing will change that. I forbid it.”

She took a deep and tremulous breath and closed her eyes. For a long, silent moment, Fenris watched as she simply breathed.

Bit by bit, her breathing and her expression grew calm, and Fenris felt his own distress easing in response.

Then she opened her eyes. “I will die before I let anything happen to you,” she said.

A bolt of fear struck him in the belly. Her expression was soft, but her words and her tone were hard as steel.

He shook his head. “Hawke—”

She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Her lips were on his cheek, then his cheekbone and finally his ear.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you more than anything and anyone. I will keep you safe.”

The hardness of her words was chilling. He swallowed hard and clasped the nape of her neck in one hand.

“We keep each other safe,” he corrected her. “Together, Hawke. We will stay safe together. We… this life is nothing if we are not together.”

She nodded silently and kissed his cheek again. He tightened his arms around her body and closed his eyes as she kissed his face, and then her lips were pressing against his own.

She coaxed his lips apart with her own, and Fenris kissed her back, pulling off his tunic at her behest so they were skin to skin from the waist up. Without speaking, they lay back on the bed, arms and legs entwined as Hawke kissed his lips and his face and his neck.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his chest, and Fenris twined his fingers in the tufty hair at her nape. They lay together in silence, entangled in a mess of limbs and fingers and fierce devotion, and Fenris gently ran his fingers along her neck until she gradually fell asleep.

Her breathing was deep and slow, and her body was a perfectly limp weight on his chest. He gazed unseeingly up at the canopy of their bed, thankful that she was at peace, but a fresh new worry was worming its way into his belly.

I will die before I let anything happen to you. To Fenris’s ears, the words were a threat more than a comfort. If she really thought he would let her sacrifice herself for his sake…

A rash of goosebumps ran down his arms. He took a deep breath and released it in a slow, careful sigh.

And then he realized with a jolt of alarm that he and Hawke weren’t alone.

Cole was sitting at the foot of the bed. Fenris instinctively tightened his arms around Hawke’s half-naked body. How long had Cole been sitting there?

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Leave us!”

Cole slid off the bed. “Her dreams are loud,” he said. “Clanging, clamouring, crying out. I…” He looked pleadingly at Fenris. “I want to help. Sweep them away, soften the edges like the scarf she gave to you.”

Fenris scowled, and Cole wrung his hands together. “She was soft before, but there’s a snag. It makes her jagged. I can sand it down, help to make her smooth again.”

Fenris stared at him. He looked distinctly anxious, like he had since their escape from the Fade.

Hawke sighed softly in her sleep, and her arms tightened around Fenris’s body. He glanced down at her sleeping face. She seemed relaxed and peaceful, but if Cole was correct, it was just another mask hiding the turmoil of her sleeping mind.

Fenris considered the spirit-boy’s words for a long, tense moment. Then he took a deep breath and looked at Cole once more.

“No,” he said. “You will ask her before you touch her mind.”

Cole ducked his head. “All right,” he whispered, and he disappeared.

Hawke shifted sluggishly on his chest. “Fenris?” she murmured.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Sleep.” He stroked her hair until she grew still again. Now he had yet another thing to worry about: Cole’s increasingly anxious behaviour. It wasn’t like Cole to be this visibly worried about helping people. He usually just floated calmly around the castle doing his strange little deeds. To see him being so visibly anxious…

Fenris shoved the concern aside. He would tell Solas about it tomorrow. He had enough to worry about without adding Cole’s mood to the mix.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be another day of duties and problems and coping with the fallout of this blasted war. But for now, he would try and melt into the long-missed closeness of Hawke’s embrace.

For now, he would hold her tattooed body in his arms, and he would pretend that no hardships would ever touch them again.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes #angst

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suck-on-a-fire-ball · 6 years ago

Text

The Beach

Word Count: around 1240 Pairing: Cullen X trevelyan!inquisitor Prompt: During a visit to Adelaide’s family, the two take a break from everything by visiting the beach. While it is a nice break from everything, Adelaide has a secret to tell Cullen.

Little golden corns of sand pressing up through toes freed from their daily confines. A wind gently dancing past the couple holding hands. Water moving back and forth, wave after wave coming close to their toes as the tide drew in. Far away on the horizon, a half circle of the sun was left shining over the waves rolling in and making them glisten with a golden light.

Although they were not alone on the beach, they felt like they were. The guards had been asked to stay put on the other side of the beach. The Trevelyan family did not want their daughter to walk too far away from safety, but the Trevelyan family was not there to see Cullen and Adelaide disobey their orders. They behaved as though the both of them had not survived an archdemon, Red Templars, Darkspawn – it was a long list. And one neither thought about as anything but a distant past they were glad was over but would redo in an instant if Thedas requested it of them.

Cullen’s Mabari, whom he had named Grimm after the stories of the Hero of Ferelden and her Mabari friend, was running around. From time to time he darted off, smelling something he wanted to investigate to which Cullen would tense up, sometimes calling him back.

Adelaide smiled during their walk. Spending time with Cullen was always relaxing, and her favourite thing to do. While visiting her family was always nice, it always became a little too much for her, and spending some alone time with Cullen was exactly what she needed. Especially since she had something specific to tell him; something she wanted to convey to him without her cousins interfering.

“Grimm!” called Cullen, the Mabari having ran off once again. “Maker, you’d think a beach would not have so many interesting smells to a dog.”

“I’m sure many animals walk on the beach when we’re not here. Maybe he smelled one of them.”

Cullen hummed in response, watching Grimm rush back. The sleek, dark fur of the Mabari was getting a little bit curly from the salt water in the wind. And upon glancing over at Cullen, Adelaide saw the same thing was happening to his hair. Smiling, she leaned against his arm. She adored those curls.

“Stay near, silly dog,” ordered Cullen. Though instead of Grimm listening to Cullen, the dog moved over to Adelaide’s side, sniffing her waist with his ears perked. Adelaide blushed, ushering Grimm to run off again. “Odd.” Cullen followed Grimm with his eyes, most likely making plans on how he could train the dog so he would listen better next time they were on a beach.

“Yes,” breathed Adelaide. She was unsure of why she was blushing. There should be no real reason for it. Clearing her throat, she stopped. Her intertwined fingers pulled at his hand to stop him as well, and he turned to face her. Over his shoulder she saw Grimm run around again. She had never met a happier creature in her life. “Actually, maybe it’s not that odd.”

Cullen tilted his head to the side, watching his wife with a curious look in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Her voice trailed off. This should not be as nerve wrecking as it currently was, right? They had been married for three years, had spent even more years working together for the Inquisition… And it had been a unanimous decision for her to stop taking those potions. So… this should really not be so nerve wrecking. “I um…”

Grimm ran up to them with a stick in his mouth, wagging his tail. Upon Cullen looking down at him, the dog sat down in respect, nearly dancing on his front two paws in pure excitement. Adelaide smiled, a bit relieved at the distraction. Taking a moment to give Grimm some attention, she crouched down and scratched behind his ear. Happy with the attention, Grimm dropped the stick and leaned in against her touch.

Cullen watched with a proud smile on his lips. This was the start of a Ferelden family. At least, it was the start of the Ferelden family Cullen had always dreamed of. A dog, a wife, their own house, no demons trying to hunt them down… So he smiled at the sight, until Grimm lowered his head and sniffed her belly.

“What’s he doing?” asked Cullen with a furrowed brow before rolling his eyes. “Grimm, get off.”

“No,” retorted Adelaide, letting her fingers brush over the fur on his back. She watched with a soft smile as Grimm took in the information his nose was giving him. And then he laid himself down before her, the way he did in front of their bed during the evening when they were falling asleep. He was guarding her, tail no longer wagging excitedly but ears perked up watchfully.

Cullen frowned in confusion.

Smiling softly still, Adelaide glanced up at Cullen, hand going to her belly. “He’s just watching over us.”

The words not quite sinking in, Cullen continued to frown as Adelaide stood back up. “There is nothing here to guard us from. Your parents’ guards are watching us like hawks anyway. There is no way that they will miss out on any danger.”

“I mean us. Me and… the baby…” Through thick eyelashes, Adelaide watched Cullen with a nervous glint in her eyes. Again, she should not be nervous. They had agreed to try, and so he would not be disappointed.

“The baby? The baby…?” As though repeating the words would help, he continued to do so until the words sunk in. Slowly, his gaze moved down to the hand over her belly, lips forming an ‘O’ as he realized what was being said. “The baby!”

Before she even had time to process his realization, his strong hands had grasped onto her hips and lifted her up into the air to spin them both around. Grimm barked happily, running around them in delight as well. Head lulled back, Cullen smiled brightly up at her as she laughed in delight at him twirling them around, holding onto him as best as she could even though she trusted him not to let her fall. From his point of view, he saw nothing but perfection being held up against the bright colours of the sky. The happiness in her eyes made his heart melt, and the sounds of her giggles made him laugh as well.

Stopping, he lowered her ever so slightly, her legs curling around his waist to keep herself in place against him. Foreheads touched as their delight turned into pure content. While he closed his eyes, nuzzling against her and placing gentle kisses to her nose, lips and cheeks from time to time, Adelaide watched his reaction with wide eyes and a bright smile on her lips. She wanted nothing but to remember this moment just the way it was. His happiness and gratification, her delight at his happiness, and Grimm’s happy barks as he continued to run around them.

She hugged him close to her, pressing her nose against his as he whispered: “I’m going to be a father.”

“You’re going to be a father,” assured Adelaide with a smile.

His eyes opened, revealing tears of joy, and Adelaide let out more laughs as he began to spin her around again.

#commander cullen #cullen rutherford #cullen romance #cullen love #cullen fanfiction #cullen father #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x oc #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #cullen rutherford fanfiction #cullen short stories #cullen x trevelyan

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gremlinquisitor · 6 years ago

Note

I have a prompt for you! “Are you jealous?” with Alistair :)

for @dadrunkwriting and @will-and-her-fandoms, after far too long - Cullen and Alistair at Skyhold, with a brief mention of Hawke.

~1800 words, Cullen/Alistair, good for all ages, fade to black (if I upped the rating it would likely never get posted)

Read it here on AO3

“Come in.” Cullen doesn’t look up from the reports at the knock on the door. This time of night most people are asleep. Those who aren’t are welcome, and those who wouldn’t be welcome wouldn’t knock.

And those who wouldn’t be welcome, but would knock, are at least worth letting in before he fights them.

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he shakes his head. It must be late; his mind is starting to wander. But he wants to have read all of these at least once before the morning, making notes in the margins, suggestions to bring to the table tomorrow. The Inquisitor’s independence grows daily, and he’s glad to see it, but he’s more glad when they come to decisions together around the war table.

He looks up, curious to see who other than him is still awake. He’s met by a familiar uniform in blue and iron grey, and a face somehow more and less familiar at once.

“Alistair.” He sets his quill aside and falls back in his chair, all but knocked back by surprise to see his old roommate. “They really are just letting anyone into the Inquisition these days.”

Alistair shrugs, lines at the corners of his eyes when he grins. He’s only just inside the door, arms folded across his chest, regarding him with a warm gaze that Cullen isn’t sure what to do with.

“I heard that Hawke had a friend, a Warden, that would be coming here to help us, but I never thought--” He stops himself, shaking his head and smiling back at Alistair. It’s a lie. Cullen had thought, as soon as he’d heard. Alistair had been the first name he’d thought of, even before the Hero of Ferelden. He’d thought, but he hadn’t dared to hope. It seemed too much to ask for after all this time. Alistair deserves peace, and he won’t find that here. But then it turned out to be true, and Cullen retreated to his office, his fear of what Alistair might think of him now overwhelming his desire to see him again.

“Oh, I had to come,” Alistair replies, taking a step towards the desk and settling his weight. “I had to see it for myself. Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition’s forces? Teacher’s pet, finally given up on the Order?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be King or something?” Cullen fires back with a grin, hands folded on his chest. His heart flutters underneath them, every word feeling like a victory, a triumph that he’s able to speak at all.

“Nah.” Alistair scrunches his nose when he shakes his head, as if Cullen asked about a second helping of vegetables rather than the crown. “Queen Anora does a fine job without me, and I’m happier in this life.”

Cullen believes it, too. Alistair looks older but no worse for that, the last of the boyish roundness gone from his face, an easy confidence in his stance that Cullen doesn’t recall from their days together. He’s grown into a fine soldier, no doubt. He was never ambitious but always dedicated, wanted to be good at everything they were learning. And he was.

He’d been more of a natural at it than Cullen, but Cullen had kept up by sheer force of will, practicing at all hours, reading, sleeping, breathing the training until it started to feel like instinct, until he’d stopped having to think so much. It had frustrated him, that what he’d always wanted had turned out to be so difficult to achieve; even more so knowing that Alistair’s heart wasn’t in it.

“What about you?” Alistair asks, head tilted slightly. “How have you been?”

Cullen sighs, running a hand through his hair to scratch at the back of his neck. “Eleven years is a long time. Where do you want me to start?”

“I hear things,” Alistair replies. “I was in Kirkwall, briefly. I couldn’t believe you were there,” he breathes. “I couldn’t believe you were in another Circle.”

He crosses the room as he talks, arms falling to hang loosely at his sides, his steps slow, heavy. Deliberate, as he comes to stand beside Cullen’s chair, resting his weight on the corner of the desk.

“After Kinloch, I thought--”

Cullen looks up at him. “I couldn’t just leave. I… I wasn’t ready to stop being a Templar.”

It’s more complicated than that, and Cullen suspects that they both know it.

“And now?” Alistair asks, watching him with a gaze that Cullen would almost think was knowing, but his lyrium abstinence is a closely-held secret that not even Alistair would know.

“Now I’m doing this,” Cullen replies, spreading his hands wide. “I couldn’t keep following the Templars, not after…”

Alistair nods, the corners of his mouth pulling down. He saw Kirkwall, and what he hasn’t seen, Cullen assumes he’s heard.

“So… you and Hawke.” He’s had the words sitting on his tongue since he knew that Alistair was in Skyhold, and he hasn’t come up with a way of putting it that doesn’t sound like he’s asking about something he doesn’t want to know about. Or at least that he’s told himself he doesn’t want to know about.

Alistair sees through him immediately, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk as he tilts his head, looking down at Cullen out of the corner of his eye. “Yes. She tracked me down to ask for my help with this red lyrium.”

Cullen is careful not to nod, doing his best to look surprised. With Hawke in Skyhold, Leliana saw an opening, sending Varric and some help to rescue two of her people from the dungeon of the Keep. The Prince’s research into red lyrium could be useful, but Cassandra insisted that asking for it would get them nothing. He suspects her mistrust is a holdover from when she went to him in search of Hawke, but Leliana had agreed to sending agents. He’s not surprised to hear that Hawke was helping Sebastian, but he is surprised that she would think a Grey Warden could be of use with their investigation.

“Why you?” Cullen asks. “You never even started taking it before you left for the Wardens.”

Alistair shrugs. “Desperation, I suppose. The Wardens need lyrium, even if I don’t. Deep Roads, Blight… Warden stuff.” He sighs. “I couldn’t help much, though. Warden-Commander Clarel was-- is looking for me, so I had to disappear for a while.”

“What do you think of her?” A dozen different ways to ask that question and that’s the one his treacherous brain decides on. It’s as if the mantle on his shoulders shrinks when he flushes under Alistair’s curious gaze; he’s too warm in his skin and everything he’s wearing fits poorly. He’d meant to ask if Alistair thought she could be trusted, if she seems stable. If she’s still haunted by Kirkwall the way he is, or some other way.

Alistair slides off the corner of the desk and steps up close into Cullen’s space. “Are you jealous?”

Cullen sputters, but doesn’t manage an answer before Alistair continues, smug and grinning.

“I think you are jealous, but for the life of me I can’t tell of whom, or why.”

Maker’s Breath, but he wants it to be a ridiculous accusation. There’s nothing there to be jealous of; he and Hawke were unlikely last-minute allies in their best moments, and he and Alistair… Well. A few stolen kisses behind the healer’s cabin all those years ago hardly give him any right to be jealous.

“Hawke’s a capable fighter, but she’s not you. She’s got a quick mind, as well, but she’s still not you.” He leans down, so close that his nose brushes against Cullen’s cheekbone, and his breath is warm on Cullen’s ear. “I could’ve stayed in that cave in Crestwood, you know. It’s a better hiding place, but you’re not there.”

The kiss is little more than a brush of Alistair’s lips to the corner of Cullen’s mouth. It could almost seem like a mistake. He can’t be sure that Alistair thought of him at all since then, and if he has, what sort of thoughts could they have been? Cullen curled up on the floor of Kinloch Hold, begging for death? Cullen in Kirkwall, broken but obedient, complicit in the start of a war? Is that what he wants Alistair to think of, if he thinks of him at all?

Cullen turns his head to catch Alistair’s mouth before he’s moved away. He thrills at the soft, delighted sound that Alistair makes when his kiss is answered, when Alistair smiles and pushes back just enough to eliminate any thought that this might not be what he wants.

The angle is awkward, but that’s solved easily enough when Cullen surges to his feet, catching Alistair’s face in his hands. He brushes his thumbs along Alistair’s cheeks, breathing in the scent of leather and metal and the road as he kisses him. Their noses bump as they both move at once, trying to figure out how they fit together now.

“How far under here are you?” Alistair mumbles as he tries to find somewhere on Cullen’s sides to touch that isn’t covered in armor or layer upon layer of cloth. He settles for grabbing hold of Cullen’s hips and pulling, not closing his mouth again after he’s spoken, catching Cullen’s lower lip between his own.

It sends sparks through him, tickling under his skin and lighting up inside him, and Cullen finds himself smiling back at Alistair.

“Stay the night and you can find out.”

Everything stops. Alistair goes still against him, then pulls back to look into his eyes. Cullen’s smile wilts, and he lets go of Alistair’s face as he takes a step away. It was too bold a suggestion, too soon, if it would ever have been wanted at all, and he feels panic squeeze a cold hand around his throat.

Alistair studies his face for a moment, wide-eyed with furrowed brows. “You-- Would you really want that? Me, here?”

Cullen nods, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and not nearly enough blood going to his brain for him to form a more cohesive answer.

This time when Alistair kisses him, there’s real force behind it, need and intent as he wraps his hand around the back of Cullen’s neck and starts to guide both of them towards the ladder.

“You sleep up there?” Alistair mutters, and Cullen nods again. “Still under a pile of furs that would warm half of Ferelden?”

Cullen chuckles, breaking the kiss when they reach the base of the ladder. “Why don’t you get up there and see for yourself. I’ll be right behind.”

#dadrunkwriting #willandherfandoms #my fic #my writing #hawke #alistair theirin #cullen rutherford #really worried I botched the lore on this one but too tired to go look up all of alistair's DAI dialogue #will-and-her-fandoms

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blackwxtchmccree · 6 years ago

Text

Final part of Scars that can also be found on my AO3 >>> here

Thanks to everyone who has kept up so far <3 I think this is the first time I’ve finished something in my entire life, so go me! I hope everyone enjoys :) -Valk

Dorian had never realized just how extensive the scars from the Anchor were until he was laying naked next to Damien, dozing in their post reunion-sex haze. It had been 6 months since the Exalted Council and as promised, Dorian had returned to Tevinter.

Much to his surprise, a few months after, he had received an eluvian of all things, likely stolen from either Skyhold or the Winter Palace upon their departure for the last time. Tucked into the delicate, aged golden frame had been a note stating the warrior was determined to find his way through the Crossroads to his desired exit—which was wherever Dorian was. It took Damien a few months of experimentation, but eventually he found his way through, greeting Dorian with a smile as he appeared through the looking glass for the first time with a delighted, triumphant laugh.

Damien had been quick to draw Dorian into a kiss and the mage couldn’t help, but hum in delight. He had missed the lips he had spent nearly 3 years kissing. Leaving once Corypheus had been defeated had been hard enough and his exit then had been temporary then. Laying next to the warrior right now almost felt like a dream.

“Amatus, do you really think it’s wise to use an enchanted mirror of elven origin to travel when you’re currently hunting down an elven mage who’s trying to destroy the world?”

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into him—it would certainly make my job easier.”

Dorian snorted, raising an eyebrow as his lover lying next to him, their legs tangled and their skin sticky. Damien’s green eyes were bright—he looked far less stressed, despite his involvement in the chase to find Solas.

“This section of the Crossroads has been quiet—I wouldn’t worry too much for now, my love .”

Dorian’s heart still fluttered whenever those words left Damien’s mouth and the mage smiled, tucking his head tighter against the ginger’s chest, his fingers tracing the scars on the former Inquisitor’s skin that he had come to love over the years. The mage couldn’t help, but trace the almost branch-like marks the Anchor had left; they extended over Damien’s left pec and down his upper arm, darkening the freckled skin, finally ending where what was left of his arm had stopped at his elbow.

From Damien’s elbow extended something akin to a ‘phantom limb’ as Dorian had described it upon seeing it for the first time hours ago. A hazy outline of Damien’s previous forearm sat attached to his elbow via a small arm band wrapped around the stump, the inside of the outline almost foggy before coming together to form a definitive frame of the former limb.

Dorian had had a plethora of questions about it, including its functionality and how the warrior had come across such an invention. Damien had showed him he was basically capable of doing all of the things he had been able to do before losing his arm, though he did show the mage that sometimes things phased through the limb and he had to try again to pick them up. Regardless, it was a suitable replacement he had been presented with by Dagna of all people, who had seemed to sense his oncoming plight with the Anchor and had been testing designs.

“Does it hurt anymore? Your Anchor arm, I mean,” Dorian asked quietly, the memory of Cassandra severing the limb while he and Varric held Damien coming to the forefront of his mind again, making him grimace.

“Not usually, no. I get phantom pains on occasion, but nothing I can’t manage,” Damien replied, running an idle hand up the curve of Dorian’s back before carding his fingers through the mage’s dark hair. “No need to worry.”

“Oh I intend to worry to my heart’s content. Someone has to, for your sake.”

“Maker you sound like my mother.”

“How is she, by the way? I miss that woman—quick as a whip and far more entertaining than any other Marcher I’ve ever met.”

Damien tried not to look offended and Dorian laughed at his lover’s exasperated expression. Damien couldn’t help, but grin, shaking his head.

“She’s good. I went home for a little while after everything was said and done and she hugged me for a solid five minutes at least as soon as I walked in the door. My father seemed to have recovered fully and the entire estate wasn’t in disarray, so all is well.”

“Pray tell, has Bann Trevelyan said anything else, or has he kept good on his apology?”

“Not a word. He seemed almost pleased to see me—even gave me an almost disappointed look when I left for Kirkwall to check out the estate Varric bequeathed me at the Exalted Council.”

“I take it that’s where you came from? You’ll have to show me the path through the Crossroads—I’d like to see Kirkwall.”

“I can hear Varric calling you ‘Sparkler’ already,” Damien huffed, his tone almost wistful. The ginger’s eyes had drifted closed and Dorian couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the mage’s lips.

They could relax—at least for tonight. Damien would have to get up and face the impending continuation of the hunt for Solas and Dorian would have to go toe to toe with his fellow magisters in the coming days, but for now they laid in silence, enjoying the other’s company. Dorian almost fell asleep listening to Damien breathe, his freckled chest rising and falling gently and lulling Dorian into a light dozing state.

“Marry me?”

That made the mage sit up, pulling him rather abruptly into full consciousness as he looked over at Damien in astonishment, his brown eyes wide. Damien met the mage’s gaze evenly, determination and adoration reflected in his emerald eyes.

“P-pardon?”

“You heard me. I have the rings in my bag. We can stage it again later to get free drinks if you want, too.”

For once in his Maker-damned life, Dorian Pavus was at a loss for words. He stared at Damien for a beat, his brow furrowing as he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out and he closed it again.

“Take your time. I’ll wait however long it takes and I’ll still love you even if you say no.”

Truthfully, it took Dorian another ten seconds to answer, but to Damien, it felt like an eternity. He watched Dorian closely, his heart racing, but his outer countenance remained calm.

Finally, a grin broke out on Dorian’s face and the mage leaned down, coaxing Damien into a passionate kiss, biting teasingly at the ginger’s lower lip, making the warrior groan.

“I’d be a fool to say no.”

“You would also miss out on a nightlong Ostwickian feast with every cheese and wine on the continent, powerful political connections, and my eternal unwavering love,” Damien quipped, pressing kisses to Dorian’s cheek and the sides of his mouth.

“I’m thinking one of those is slightly more important than the other two.”

“The political connections,” Damien asked sarcastically, eyeing Dorian playfully with a small smile. “I know I know—I get it.”

“Your love you fool,” Dorian retorted exasperatedly, shaking his head. “That’s a very resounding yes, by the way.”

“Never doubted it for a second.”

The second time Damien appeared through the eluvian—a few months before their fall wedding, he was carrying a baby, much to Dorian’s surprise. The mage had been expecting him, assuming the warrior was there to run wedding plans and invitations by him, but he had stepped through the looking glass with a small bundle in his arms. The mage gave him a quizzical look, his chocolate eyes widening in response when he realized what the former Inquisitor was holding.

“That’s… that’s a child. An elven baby, to be exact.”

Her pointed ears didn’t go unnoticed and it further perplexed Dorian as to how Damien managed to get himself into such a situation.

“ Our elven baby, to be exact. I was meeting one of Leliana’s contacts in Darktown when an elven woman approached me outside of the Alienage and basically dropped her into my arms before running off,” Damien replied, his brow furrowing. ”She can’t be more than a few months old at the most. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept her for a few days and found an elven nanny and a wet nurse to take care of her. By the time we had named her, I knew it was all over. I couldn’t let her go.”

Damien was looking down at her almost fondly and Dorian approached, unable to keep a smile off of his face when the small child babbled at him happily, looking up at him with big, curious gray eyes. His heart clenched in his chest when she reached for him, to which Damien relinquished her to the mage. A choked laugh bubbled up from his chest when she grabbed at the hanging embellishments on his clothes as he held her, a smile lighting up her small face as she played. Dorian felt tears gather at the edges of his eyes and he looked up at Damien again, who was examining him reverently.

“What’s her name?”

“We started calling her Amira. I decided we can teach her about her heritage if she so wishes, but I wanted to give her the most comfortable life I possibly could. It’s dangerous for her in Kirkwall and here, but I know we can protect her.”

Dorian nodded, fighting back tears as Amira grabbed at his robes, her small hand wrapping around his finger when he went to adjust the blanket she was wrapped in. That opened the floodgates and sobs wracked the mage’s body, tears rolling down his face. Damien was quick to brush them away gently, pulling Dorian and Amira against his chest and pressing a kiss to Dorian’s forehead.

“You have made me… far happier than I ever expected to be years ago and you somehow manage to get more wonderful with each passing day,” Damien whispered into Dorian’s hair, feeling tears gather at the edges of his eyes.

“I’m glad you got to see the day and I’m glad I got to see it with you, amatus.”

“Me, too.”

The third time, one of the many more times Damien would walk through the Eluvian smiling at him, with Amira in his arms and hope—an emotion Damien was sure he’d never feel again—in his emerald eyes, it was a week before their wedding. The trip from Kirkwall to Ostwick would take at least 4 days, maybe longer with a baby, but Amira slept quietly wrapped against Dorian’s chest for most of their trip, her eyes wide scanning the passing landscape whenever she was awake. Damien smiled whenever he heard Dorian coo at Amira, looking down at her with bright eyes and a grin on his face.

As they approached the Trevelyan estate, Dorian got hit with an intense sense of deja-vu, his mind drifting to the first time he passed through those gates, watching Damien ride ahead of him, uncertainty reflected in his emerald eyes. Now, Damien seemed content, looking over his shoulder at the mage, who smiled at him urged his horse forward, catching up to ride beside the warrior across the courtyard.

His mother was already standing at the door, waving at them as they approached, her blue eyes widening in shock when she realized her son was holding a child, instantly plucking Amira out of his arms and cooing at her in delight. Bann Trevelyan stepped out from behind his wife, giving his son an uncertain look before shrugging and moving to hug the ginger, nodding to Dorian in greeting. Dorian noted Damien’s body language was no longer tense around his father and it made a smile pull at the edges of his lips.

“A few of your friends are already here. I’ll take her—go greet them. They’re in the kitchen.”

Damien’s brown furrowed and he looked over his shoulder at Dorian, giving the magister a quizzical look, but the mage shrugged, taking the hand Damien extended towards him and leading them into the house. Laughter echoed through the doorway to the kitchen and down the hall.

Damien recognized their voices before he even stepped through the doorway, shaking his head and immediately drawing Cassandra into a hug—Damien had seen her once in the year and a half since the Exalted Council and as the new(er) Divine, she was a busy woman. She greeted him brightly, having dressed down to simpler Chantry robes and trousers, likely against the wishes of her Chantry sisters.

Bull, Krem, and Rainer stood at the nearby dining room table, examining a huge wheel of cheese. Dorian watched as Bull waved his arms around, likely trying to dissect how they could cut it and the mage snorted at his gestures, almost delighted to find that he hadn’t changed much. Varric came walking in from Dorian’s right, two bottles of wine in hand, calling out to Damien as he entered, greeting Dorian with his customary ‘Sparkler’ before setting upon pouring wine for everyone.

Josephine and Leliana appeared from the living room just behind Dorian, making the mage jump when Leliana rested a hand on his shoulder and Josephine addressed him with a cheery ‘Magister Pavus’, slipping past him to investigate the wine Varric had chosen. Finally, he heard rapid steps that he realized couldn’t possibly belong to a human and turned to watch as a rather rambunctious Mabari came trotting through the doorway, followed by a disheveled, but otherwise rosy cheeked Cullen carrying a variety of wine glasses. The former Inquisition commander thanked him when the mage moved to take some of the glassware, helping set the glasses on the counter as Varric poured. Damien ran a gentle hand across Dorian’s lower back as the warrior passed behind him to talk to Cullen, making the mage’s heart fluttered. He hoped that feeling would never fade.

Once everyone had gathered in the kitchen and half-full glasses had been passed around, Damien cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention and they fell silent, all eyes turning to their former Inquisitor. Dorian moved closer to the ginger’s side, smiling up at him. The magister remembered most of Damien’s past speeches vividly and the man was a gifted orator, but what he said next somehow surpassed all of his past eloquently delivered dialogues.

“I’ve made a lot of speeches in my life and I’m sure you all tire of hearing my voice, so I’ll say this: To lifelong hope, healing, love, and friendship.”

His friends—some of whom had traveled thousands of miles to be there with them, echoed his sentiments, raising their glasses in unison. Dorian looked up at Damien, stifling tears that threatened to gather at the edges of his chocolate eyes. The scars on the warrior’s freckled face had started to fade and there was a light in his eyes that rivaled the Anchor that used to mark his left palm, something Dorian was glad to see after all of the years of watching him struggle and sometimes break.

Damien met Dorian’s gaze evenly, bringing a hand up to coax the mage into a small kiss.

“All thanks to you.”

#dorian pavus #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x trevelyan #dragon age #dragon age inquisiton #da:i #male trevelyan #trespasser dlc #trespasser spoilers #post-trespasser #scars #damien trevelyan #my writing

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queen-scribbles · 7 years ago

Text

Common Thread

For @pillarspromptsweekly #31: Inquisitor Kinda short, because I wound up having to revamp part of it. (god the title took forever. It’s not perfect, but seriously, I’ve been sitting on this all. day. trying to title it so I don’t care anymore xD)

They came in the middle of the night, and woke her up, which Tavi was more angry about than the fact they were trying to kill her.

Decades of living on the run, constantly on alert, had made her a very light sleeper, however. She was wide awake at the first creak of her window sill, though she feigned otherwise. Questions like who was brazen(or desperate) enough to come after her in Caed Nua rather than on the road, or why, would have to wait for if she left any of the would-be attackers alive. Tavi curled her hand around the hilt of the dagger she kept under her pillow and waited for one of them to get close enough. The floorboards around her bed creaked--something she refused to let the Steward have fixed for this exact reason--so she wouldn’t be caught unawares.

The telltale creak came only a few seconds later, and Tavi was moving almost before the intruders could worry they were given away. Gripping the dagger tight, she rolled across the bed toward the approaching assassins. The second she made contact, she struck, driving her blade deep into the kith’s chest and using her momentum to knock them to the ground.

There were muffled oaths from two other folk who were less close and saw their friend go down. Still trying for some degree of secrecy, they did not raise their voices as they moved to strike at her.

Tavi raised her arms to deflect the blows, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t using her sabres. By pure luck, the dagger came free of her first victim in time to block one attack, but the other bit into her forearm. “Fuck!”

She rolled away from the first assailant, trusting she’d done enough damage he wouldn’t be a problem, and narrowly dodged another strike as she made it to her feet. Now better able to see the remaining attackers, Tavi lashed out with the dagger and caught one across the throat as he closed in. He went down with a gurle, one hand futilely grasping at the wound.

The last one growled another oath at the sight of his dying fellows. “Vailian bitch, why’d you have to be so fucking difficult?!” He dodged her next swipe at him and grabbed her wrist, twisting until she was almost forced to drop the dagger.

“Sorry,” Tavi grunted, punching him in the face with her free hand. Something cracked and he instinctively loosened his grip enough she could pull away. “I’ve gotten a lot of practice survivin’ shit people hoped would kill me.” She flipped the dagger in her hand and jammed it in the hollow of the man’s collarbone as he staggered.

Even as he fell, he took a final, desperate swing at Tavi with his short sword. He caught her on the shoulder, cutting in toward the center of her chest.

“Even the best of us make mistakes,” he rasped, and the words seared down to Tavi’s soul, dragging her away as she heard the door to her room open.

oOo

“Even the best of us make mistakes,” she says reassuringly as Derwa stumbles over a portion of catechism that Petrok reeled off easy as breathing. It’s the first time in months the girl hasn’t done better than her brother, and the gleam in Petrok’s eye makes it clear he’s about to tease.

So she rests a comforting hand on Derwa’s shoulder and sends Petrok a warning look. He gets the message and bites his tongue. Derwa tucks her red curls behind her ears and tries again, doing much better this time.

“There, see?” she says, smiling at the young girl. “I knew you’d remember. Excellent job. Now why don’t you two go see if Mabena or Jory need any help?”

It’s as the gangly twins scurry off that she notices she’s being watched. And by the Grand Inquisitor himself, no less. “You are Kayna, are you not? I’ve heard much regarding how you help the youngest of our faith with their memorization.”

She nods in acknowledgement of the praise. “Thank you, Eminence. It is my pleasure to serve the faith, with everything you’ve done for me.”

The Grand Inquisitor purses his lips. “I wonder, Acolyte Kayna, do you truly believe the words you help our children commit to memory? Or has simple duty overtaken devotion?”

Her heart pounds at the thought he doubts her commitment. “My duty is driven by my devotion, Eminence. I owe the gods far too much to ever let that change.”

He smiles, but it is different than the children’s grins, or the slow spread of delight across her sister’s face. More serious, even in his approval. Like a teacher with a pupil who has given the correct answer to a brainteaser. “I am glad to hear it. Tell me, would you be willing to share what the gods have done for you and your gratitude for it in pursuit of bringing more people to our faith?”

She presses her hands to her chest as if to physically quell the risiing tide of delight. “Willing? Eminence, I’d be honored!”

He nods once, a curt but satisfied motion. “We are having commissioning ceremony for new missionaries at the stat of the new week. It would please me greatly if you were among them, Kayna.”

She nods excitedly, already wondering where her service to the gods will send her. “Of course...”

oOo

Coming to her senses after one of those... visions had always been fucking disorienting, but this time was worse than before. Especially given that it was immediately followed by the realization, This isn’t my room.

When she started to push herself up to a sitting position, head buzzing with the lingering tendrils of memory, her shoulder protested sharply. Oh, right. Tavi flopped back at the reminder of what had triggered this episode, feeling the bandages that swathed her injured shoulder with curious fingers. It seemed like a lot, but that wound was in an awkward place to bandage. She was just reaching the point of trying again--this time supporting her weight in her uninjured arm--when there was a relieved sigh from the doorway.

“You’re awake.”

Tavi grinned and carefully but swiftly pushed herself upright. “Worried about me, Corfiser?”

Aloth shrugged, fingers twisting one of his rings. “Shouldn’t I be? You were catatonic when... we found you, and Keya wasn’t sure if that was due to you having another of your... moments, as she put it, or some poison one of the dead assassins had used.” He crossed to sit on the other bed in the room, shifting the disarrayed sheets to be comfortable. “Tavi, do you recall our conversation not too terribly long ago about how you could stand to worry about yourself in combat a little? That extends to assassins infiltrating your bedroom as well.”

“If it had taken more than a minute to deal with, I would’ve,” Tavi retorted defensively. “Didn’t that same conversation involve me sayin’ you could stand to lighten up a little?” She caught the look that flashed across his face and winced. “Sorry, city slick- Aloth. You musta really been worried...” She was fishing a little, but gods forgive her, it was late, she was hurt, and she didn’t really care.

“Yes, well...” He hunched his shoulders and bit his lip briefly before meeting her eyes. “You were unresponsive, Tavi, and neither of your injuries looked severe enough to have caused such a state. I- Keya and I both guessed it might simply be another of your flashbacks, but it seemed to be lasting longer than the previous ones. So, yes, we were- I was worried about you.”

“Sweet of you,” Tavi teased, her heart fluttering. She contemplated swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, so she could better face him, but she was too tired. “Do we know who sent the assholes who were supposed to kill me?”

Aloth nodded, a note of wry sarcasm in his voice as he set a folded piece of parchment on the table between the beds. “You’ll never guess who.”

Normally she would have tried, but she was tired, and her arm hurt. “Fun as it would be to try, why don’t you just tell me?”

“Gathbin.”

Tavi’s eyes widened. “Shit, you’re right, I wouldn’t have guessed that. The Leaden Key or those people who’ve been huntin’ me, yeah, but not him.” She snagged the parchment and folded it open. “His name’s not on this.”

“But his seal is,” Aloth said. “Which I imagine a man like Gathbin guards even more jealously than his name.”

“He must’ve had a lot of faith in these assassins,” Tavi muttered, turning the parchment in her hands. “I mean, there’s gotta be some way to use this against him, right? He tried to have me killed over the fuckin’ keep, there hafta be rules about that.”

“We can talk to Marshal Forwyn in the morning,” Aloth suggested. “In the meantime, Sagani and Edér are retracing the assassins’ steps, to see where they came fom and how they got in, And Keya recruited Kana and Hiravias to go through their effects with her, so maybe they’ll find something more damning.”

“I fuckin’ hope so. This shit is getting annoyin’.” She yawned. “Sorry I worried you.” Exhaustion sat heavy on her, but she didn’t feel like giving in quite yet. She glanced around the room, smirking slightly at the pair of grimoires open on the desk. “Your room?”

It was Aloth’s turn to sound defensive. “Yours is currently covered in blood. And mine was closest.” (It wasn’t; Sagani and Keya’s was, but she wasn’t about to call him on the fib.) Well, closest with an extra bed,” he amended.

“Mm.” Nice save, Corfiser.

He hesitated a moment before asking his next question. “Was it one of your flashbacks?”

Tavi nodded. “Yeah.”

“What did you see this time?”

“I learned what my... her? name was; Kayna. And that that life was a very religious kiss-ass and a wallflower.”

“Nothing like you, then,” Aloth said, teasing glint in his eye.

Tavi squinted at him. “Disappointed?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Never. You should probably get some more sleep. Minimal as your injuries were, you did still lose blood, and Keya said rest will help.”

She nodded. “I will. If you promise to go to sleep, too. I”m fine, these are basically nothing” --she held up her arm with its two bandaged wounds-- “the copperfuckers who tried to kill me are dead, and we have a busy day tomorrow. So since there’s no more danger and I need you functional, the best thing you can do right now is go to sleep with me.” Her cheeks flamed and part of her wanted to hide under the blankets. “I mean, fuck, not with me. At the same time as... You know what I meant.”

Aloth laughed, cheeks slightly pink nevertheless as he settled into bed. “I do. Goodnight, Tavi.”

He blew out the lone candle before rolling over to go to sleep, but Tavi still smiled in the darkness. “Night, city slicker.”

#queens fic #pillars prompts weekly #tavi illani #pillars of eternity

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lillotte17 · 7 years ago

Text

slips this into @feynites pocket and crab scuttles away

*whispers* I’m sorrrrryyyyyyyyyyyy

Aili is eighteen, and her face is bare.

The lack of vallaslin seems like such a minor detail to strike a blow at her, when so much of this new world feels strange and wrong. But it does. She has the mind and the body of an adult again, though if things progress the way they did the first time she grew up, she might round out a little more here and there. Still. She has become herself once more.

And yet, somehow…she has not.

Her hair is kept longer. Washed and brushed into gleaming perfection. Her complexion is spotless. Immediately scrubbed free of dirt or sweat or any other unseemly thing her mother might disapprove of. Her magic is noticeably more potent. And her mother…

Her mother is Sylaise; to whom she used to sing the evening hymns when they lit the fires for their camps.

She has never shown her how to fletch an arrow from a wild bird’s feathers. Or cook a meal. Or sew her own clothing. Aili supposes that it might not be beyond her capacities, but why should Sylaise bother to teach her such things? There are servants and attendants and artisans for that.

And her father is June; the great builder. The name that had rung out across the Dalish camp in a steady pounding rhythm as the smiths and craftsmen plied their trade. She almost hears the echo of them in the sounds of his footfalls when he walks through the halls of his tower at the head of his procession. And she wonders what he would have made of that.

He is many things, imperious and slightly awkward among them, but he is not soft and inviting. Not steady and patient in a way and invites trust from anyone and anything that meets him. He does not laugh and tease and be silly with her. To show her how there is strength in being kind.

They are her parents.

And they are not.

She cannot have the same life twice.

Barring some unforeseen catastrophe, she will never bend her knee and allow the blood writing to etched back into her flesh. Daewyn will not kiss her on the night she is recognized as an adult in a haze of alcohol and teenage giggling. Deshanna will not choose her as her First.

She will not marry Uthivr.

Not while standing in the Great Hall at Skyhold in the dress Vivienne and Josie had insisted upon. And Leliana’s ridiculous shoes. Not with a pause as she walks down the aisle because her father is crying too hard and has to take a moment to collect himself.

It cannot be the same. Just as Uthvir cannot be the same, if they ever come to exist in this world. Glory had not seemed to heed her warning, but perhaps what she said will make it a little more cautious. Maybe a few more defenses and places to hide in the Dreaming will be enough to keep the Evanuris at bay.

But somewhere in the deepest, quietest corners of her heart, she knows.

She knows it will not.

Glory will be lost, like all the others. Like slender arms folding themselves around her. Sharp, deft fingers smoothing their way across the growing swell of her abdomen. Tracing the changing shapes of her body with wonder and wanting. The murmur of warm breath carrying a warmer voice pressed into the skin of her neck.

Come to bed, Vhenan.

There are mornings when she still catches the smell of them hanging in the air. As though they have simply gotten up before her to get some work done, and their scent is lingering on the bedsheets. She keeps her eyes closed when that happens, knowing it is nothing more than fragments of her own memories slipping after her from the Dreaming. Even so. She will take what she can have.

There are ways to revisit those times, of course. Spirits who would happily show her the reflections of all she has lost, for the right price. But a person cannot live in a dream, no matter how lovely, and she knows that if she dared to step into such a place, she would be far too tempted to remain there. Her world is gone, and she cannot call it back to her through sheer force of will alone.

Her daughter will not return to her with wishing.

They always say that grief is a heavy thing. That the weight of loss bears you to the ground and crushes you until you cannot move or think or speak without pain and effort. Aili has had her share of days like that. Of frustration and tears and a white-hot rage sharp enough to stab at anything within reach.

But more often than not, she simply feels…empty. Numb. Gutted like a fish. Brittle as a dry twig. Raw and aimless and aching.

If anything, she thinks she needs more weight. Something solid and real to tie her to this place. To prevent her from being swept away by a passing breeze.

The weight of her child growing within her womb. And the, later, the weight of her nestled in her arms, warm and heavy. Settled over one hip and curled into her chest, one hand balled into the fabric of her shirt as she fights her hardest to fend off sleep.

She had never wanted to miss anything.

In the end, that is the hardest memory to part with; the sight of her daughter discovering the world. Her gaze had been the soft deep purple of late twilight, bright as a set of polished gemstones. Curious and clever, and sparkling with mischievous intent more often than not. Or scrunched up with laughter. Blazing with disapproval. Heavy-lidded with impending sleep.

Little Mealla, marvel-eyed at the sight of a distant dragon rising up above the tree line as their carriage slowly made its way through a mountain pass, one hand cupped over her mouth as she let out a gasp of unexpected delight.

Mamae, can we go closer? I wanna see it! I wanna see more!

Those are the eyes that haunt her the most. The eyes filled with such wonder. And certainty. Mealla had never had a doubt that the world was hers, and she could have all the time for adventures and growing up that she could ever want from it.

That her parents could keep her safe from everything.

It is a failure Aili has no words for. A loss that seems so insurmountable that even Lavellan would be beyond its understanding. And there is a part of her that believes she deserves this. The weight of the dead. The weight of everything and nothing, all at once.

She had carried Mealla into the world, and she had carried her back out of it again. She cannot set her down now. She will not. If she lets her go, if she forgets, even for an instant, then it would be erasing the last vestiges of her existence. There is no one else to remember that she lived. That she breathed the air. That she woke with the sun and slept beneath the stars.

That she was real.

Aili is eighteen, her face is bare, and her heart is empty.

Or else it is too full. Fit to burst, as it is on this night. Throbbing like a wound that needs lancing so it can heal without festering.

Which is why she finds herself sneaking off after the largest part of the festivities finished up, when the pomp and spectacle had bled more into couples dancing and wandering off into whatever secluded corner they can find to have a bit of a party by themselves.

Nearly two decades, and she still feels mortified by the fact that her mother insists on involving the entire city of Arlathan in the celebration of her birth. There had been times when she had faced scrutiny as the Inquisitors wife, of course, and the eyes of the clan were always on her when she took up the mantle of Deshanna’s First, but this is different. She feels like some sort of fascinating butterfly, pinned to a card and placed in a glass casing for upper class people to entertain themselves with.

The lower ranking followers have their own revelries, of course, which is slightly mollifying. At least all this fuss is giving them a chance for a break. And a party is always a good cover for Lavellan’s agents to do their work. It’s…something.

Not enough, though.

She decides to head to her father’s tower instead of Sylaise’s palace. Her rooms there are slightly less ostentatious, if only because June is mostly content to let her have her own way about decorating them.

Not that she particularly feels like going to bed at the moment. Being alone in the dark with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company hardly sounds appealing. Not without a little liquid comfort to ease things along.

Haninan finds her halfway through her second cask of wine, propped up amongst some crates, with tears streaming down her face.

“Whatever happened, I’m sure there are better solutions than drinking your way through two casks of seven hundred-year-old wine,” he says quietly, offering her a hand to help her get to her feet.

“Well, if tha firs’ had made me pass out like I wanted, I would’na have ta open the second one,” Aili slurs out bitterly.

Without another word, her grandfather scoops her into his arms and carries her back up through the twisting passages of the tower. Aili muttering belligerently into the front of his tunic all the while.

He sets her down again once they have finally made their way up to the roof. Which is not somewhere she even knew a person could get to through the tower. However, if anyone was going to find a way to get someplace no one else was supposed to be, she would bet it would be Haninan.

Her daughter would have liked him, she thinks.

“Sorry I threw up on you,” she mumbles hoarsely as the cool breeze helps sober her up a bit.

“It wasn’t the first time,” Haninan reminds her with a smile, “Although you are capable of making much more of a mess now than when you were a baby.”

“I’m still a baby, if you listen to Sylaise go on about things,” she sighs, her mouth twisting in discontent as she stares out over the city. There are still drifting orbs glowing in a wide range of pastel colors, meant to be reminiscent of flowers, and music wafting up from the Pleasure District, as well as from her mother’s palace. Even more than the usual amount of light and noise and color that the city generates. It is very beautiful, in its way.

And horrible, too.

“Not a baby,” Haninan consoles her, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, “Just…young. Young enough to still merit a bit of fussing and hovering. And you are your parents’ first and only child. You cannot hold it against them too much for wanting to coddle you a bit.”

“Lavellan told you about the place we came from, didn’t she?” Aili asks with another long exhale of breath. When Haninan nods an affirmative, she continues, “In the world I come from, someone my age would be old enough to get married, if they wanted. They would be expected to work and earn their keep and look after themselves. They’d be old enough to have their own child, if they were so inclined. And here… Here, I cannot do anything. I cannot attend council meetings, or fight in tourneys, I can’t even hunt unsupervised. Mother wouldn’t even let me attend my own birthday party unless I stayed with her the whole time. This place… This life, is a prison. A punishment for my failures in that other world. I can’t say I don’t deserve it, but still…it chafes.”

“I am certain you are being too hard on yourself,” Haninan soothes, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “A wolf came, and destroyed your worlds. You did your best to stop it. You may grieve at the fact that you were not successful, but you should not blame yourself for your defeat.”

“But…I could have done things differently,” Aili tells him thickly, “Vhenan was always suspicious of him. Never wanted to let him too close. I thought they were just being over-protective, but… Maybe we should have cast him out. Been more thorough when we searched for spies. We probably could have killed him, if we had tried early enough. Maybe I could have changed something, even if I couldn’t save the whole world. I could have- I might have been able to save…”

She pauses, overcome, as Haninan pulls her more fully against his chest. Hushing her tears, and running his hands across her back in slow, calming circles.

“Tell me their name, little heart,” he says. “If it will help ease some of your grief, give me their name, and I will mourn them with you. I have never lost a child, but I am no stranger to heartache.”

“Mealla,” she whimpers between sobs, and it is such a relief to speak the word aloud to listening ears. To say it as the name of her daughter, instead of a muffled cry chanted into the folds of her blankets. She had not slept those nights, both hopeful and afraid that passing spirits might visit her whilst wearing the guise of her child’s face, as a comfort or a torment. She is never certain which would be worse.

“A fine name,” Haninan commends, “A flash of light in the darkness.”

“She was so…so little,” Aili hiccups, “And fierce as anything. So clever. You…you would have loved her, Haninan. Everyone…everyone loved her. Even he… The wolf, he held her in his arms. Told her stories. Watched her grow. I never understood how he could just… And my poor Heart… They died…so I could save her. But I couldn’t. I was too late… Too late. When I got to her, she was already gone.”

She keeps talking, memories and stories pouring past her lips like a breached floodgate. Running together until she is not certain she can tell the difference between a true recollection, and the idle fantasies pieced together by her aching heart.

The mischief her daughter used to stir up. Her talent with magic. The shape of her smile. The weight of her little body in her arms, never to wake again. Spirit trapped beyond the Veil.

The times she blames her spouse for everything. The blind flashes of rage that twist themselves into moments of ugliness and hate. Their failed wards. The wolf’s victories. Letting her bring a child into the world in the first place, when they knew that gods and monsters were hovering around the edge of their existence, waiting to rend the world apart.

The immediate guilt that follows those thoughts. Her heart had given their life, after all. Which is more than she did. They would have given more, if they had it. She knows. Their love for their daughter was just as strong as her own.

Bright as the sun.

Haninan holds her and listens without judgement. Letting her have those feelings, and acknowledge them without shame. Allowing her to share her burden, as much as she can, until weariness and mild inebriation win out, and Aili falls asleep in his arms.

Her last thought is, as always, of her daughter.

The little lightning girl.

They should have known better than to choose that name, she thinks blearily. Because lightning only brightens the sky for an instant. A shining moment of beauty.

And then it is gone.

#Aili lavellan #Haninan #Uthvir #Mealla #Sylaise's Daughter AU #idk what we're even calling it anymore #>_>#fic #this took forever because i had to put my brain in a Sad Place for a long time #to get it right #the sharp one likes your shine!

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ma-sulevin · 8 years ago

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Souls Made of Dreams, pt. 7

[part six] [masterpost] [AO3]

Alistair gives in to the temptation to track Kate down the next morning. He slept poorly, what little time he spent in the Fade plagued by the Call of the taint, and all he wants to do is see one of the few people in Skyhold who seems to understand what he’s going through.

That he woke up five days ago with her name printed on his chest where before had just been scarred skin is… Alistair sighs heavily and pauses on the library stairs to rub at his eyes. It’s a curious fact, first getting your soulmark at thirty-one. He thought at first his soulmate had just been born, and that thought was worse than not having a soulmate at all.

It wasn’t until Kate took his hand in the library that he knew, that he really knew it was her. She said she didn’t have soulmarks where she came from, but now she’s in Thedas. She belongs here, now, with him. Does she know it? Has she realized it yet?

She said she was married before. She had a husband and a family, pets, a life that he can’t comprehend. Maybe if he asks her about it, she’ll talk about herself instead of staring at him with those sad eyes that say she knows so much that he doesn’t.

She isn’t in her little nook at her desk, and a quick scan of the library doesn’t turn her up either. The mage Fiona is at her usual place, but she turns away from him before he can get her attention to ask after Kate. He frowns at that but walks around until he finds the Tevinter mage who always seems to have Kate hanging off of his arm.

Dorian is in his armchair, a thick tome in his hand printed in words Alistair can’t read, but he glances up when he hears the Warden approaching.

“Ah!” he says, peering at Alistair over the top of his book. “If it isn’t our favorite Warden. Looking for your researcher?”

Alistair’s face darkens at the insinuation, his fingers itching to touch the mark under his armor, but he pushes through the awkwardness to speak. “I am indeed. Have you, ah. Have you seen her this morning?”

Dorian takes a moment to smooth his mustache as though he has to think about it. “Not yet, I’m afraid.” He glances toward her desk as though he’ll be able to see through the wall and check on her.

“She’s usually here by now, isn’t she?” Alistair asks, trying and failing to keep the worry out of his voice. If Kate just appeared in Thedas without warning, perhaps she can disappear the same way.

“Perhaps she…” Dorian hesitates, tripping over his words in a way not at all like him as he remembers the expressionless way she finished her wine and then disappeared from the Inquisitor’s chamber, still wearing that ridiculously oversized tunic. He amends his statement before he finishes it, not wanting to upset Alistair further or give away anything Kate might want to keep private. “She may have just had too much to drink and is recovering in bed.”

Alistair narrows his eyes, thoughtful, apparently not completely convinced. Something pricks at the back of his mind, similar to but still somehow different than the way darkspawn make his skin crawl, and he leaves Dorian along without hesitation. He searches through Skyhold, first heading up to the rooms where visitors are kept, but Kate isn’t in the one the servant points him to.

The bed barely looks slept in, and he continues searching through the keep’s grounds.

When he hesitates in the upper courtyard near the innocuous door that he knows leads to the prison cells, something makes him turn around and stare at it. Surely Kate wouldn’t have a reason to be down there, but he’s looked nearly everywhere else…

He gives in to the temptation and pushes through the door, following the steep stairs down into the belly of the keep. It’s quiet down here, no prisoners currently being held and therefore no guards outside of the cells, but he pushes through the first room to the second.

This one is open to the waterfall below Skyhold, the wooden floor rotting away from all the moisture in the air. Kate sits on one of the whole portions closest to the drop, her knees tucked against her chest. She’s still wearing Cadash’s tunic, though she’s found a pair of plaidweave leggings to wear under it, and she doesn’t look when Alistair’s footfalls start to echo through the chamber.

“How do you always find me?” she demands, tucking her face tighter against her knees.

Alistair stops walking a few feet behind her, watching as her shoulders hunch, drawing in on herself. The prickling sensation that drove him to find her after she was missing from the library calms in his mind, and his shoulders relax even as he stares at her with a frown. He can’t see any of her skin other than her bare feet and the back her neck, but as she shifts he can see the end of a tattoo on her shoulder, what looks like a lowercase R.

He takes a step closer but freezes as the floor creaks under him.

“I suppose the same way you knew it was me without turning around?” he offers, answering her question even after the several seconds of silence stretching between them. She snorts and shakes her head, finally glancing over her shoulder at him to send him an unamused look.

He shifts from foot to foot, fingers twisting around themselves as though he wants to snatch her back from Skyhold’s edge. “Will you… will you please come back from there?” he pleads, voice a little higher at the end of his sentence than it was at the beginning.

Kate sighs at his request and scoots backward before twisting to stand on the more solid floorboards. The motion pulls at her loose tunic, exposing Alistair’s name branded on her shoulder. His eyes catch on it immediately and his stomach clenches at the sight, but it’s nothing he didn’t already know, not with her name already on his skin and the spark that jumped between them in the library.

He reaches down for her hand to help her up, and she lets him tug hard on her arm. With his help she’s able to leap to her feet away from the edge, and she ignores the sound of the wood creaking even as Alistair shudders. He doesn’t let go of her hand, using it to continue pulling her back to safety.

He stops when they reach the safe area of the prison, the one approved for Inquisition use, and looks down at their still clasped hands. He drops her fingers quickly, crossing his arms over his chest as she blushes hotly and turns away.

She wants to leave him there, push past him and disappear somewhere else into Skyhold where maybe no one will be able to find her this time, but now that he has her alone…

“Kate,” he starts, but a sharp look from the woman shuts him right up.

“Did you know?” she demands. “When you found me on the wall? Or in the library?”

He blinks down at her. “Did I… know?” he repeats, earning himself another unamused look.

She turns away slightly, shifting her shoulders until he can see the rest of the soulmark on her shoulder. He swallows hard as her green eyes flash back up to his.

“Did. You. Know.” She clearly enunciates each word, letting him know how serious she is.

Alistair hesitates, not sure what to say, then forces the truth out: “I suspected. I didn’t know .”

Kate sniffs a little, swiping at her nose with the back of her hand as she looks away from him. “I don’t know what to do.”

Her voice sounds small, her fear showing her age and innocence in a world like Thedas. Alistair wants to reach out and clutch her to his chest, but he settles for putting one large hand on her shoulder, the one with his name on it, and squeezing gently.

She allows his touch for a moment, ducking her head toward him like she might step into him after all, but she shies away before either of them has a chance to act on that thought.

“I don’t know what to do either.” The admission is calming to her, and her shoulders relax slightly even as her arms wrap around her stomach.

A shiver runs through her from the cold of the exposed room, but she only allows herself a moment of weakness before she squares her shoulders and stands up straight.

“You’re leaving for the Approach tomorrow, right?” At Alistair’s nod, Kate presses her lips together in thought. “And I’ll be here, researching.”

Silence falls between them, both of them standing with their arms wrapped around themselves instead of each other. Her thumb falls to the silver ring on her left hand, an old habit that now just draws Alistair’s attention to one more thing standing between them.

Hesitation nearly ties Alistair’s tongue, but he finally manages to say, “Could I write you?”

Kate’s lips part in surprise as she looks up at him. Their eyes meet and Alistair’s face heats up before she speaks. “You want to write me? While you’re in a desert? Will you… have time?”

“I’ll make time. For you.”

She swallows hard and blushes, her whole body warming from just that simple sentence. It’s always like that, him awkward and blushing one minute and saying something unbearably sweet the next. It’s what drew her attention to him in the first place. And now that he’s standing here…

She bites hard on the inside of her lip before turning to force her attention back to the man standing in front of her. “I would like that.”

Alistair’s whole face lights up. “Really?”

He looks so excited, and it’s all she can do to keep from reaching up to touch the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes or wrapping her arms around him and begging him not to leave the safety of Skyhold.

Instead, she just nods. “Words are… it’s easier to write, sometimes.” Her eyes flicker over his face as he continues grinning down at her, completely delighted with what she’s saying.

“Perfect!” His voice is a little too loud in the otherwise silent room, and he immediately quiets himself when he sees her flinch from the noise. “Will you… come to the tavern tonight? Everyone will be there, I think. Hawke too.”

Kate’s nodding before she thinks about what he’s asking. “I… oh. These are my only clothes right now. Everything else is off being washed… somewhere.”

Alistair looks down at her body, a serious expression briefly on his face, before he unclasps his cloak from around his neck. He whips it around with a flourish, settling it on her much narrower shoulders without a second thought. He fastens it there before smoothing the fabric over her arms.

“There,” he declares. “You’re perfect.” He beams down at her, pleased with himself, and notes the way her cheeks pinken at the compliment.

She coughs and ducks her head, eyes sliding away from him in time to see his hand reaching for hers. She lets him take her fingers and tuck them into the crook of his elbow before he turns.

“Shall I escort you back to your library tower, my lady?”

Kate laughs at his words, a light sound, and she manages to stand up a little straighter next to him. “I suppose I should put in an appearance before Dorian drags me off to watch the sparring sessions for lunch.”

They barely notice anything as they move through Skyhold other than the feel of each other on their skin and the occasional brushing of their shoulders as they walk.

[part eight]

#mgit au #my writing #2017 writing

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shannaraisles · 7 years ago

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Set In Darkness

Chapter: 27 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical threat and violence; ever so slightly NSFW Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

Something New

Her next wake up was a lot more pleasant.

Warm and comfortable, it took a moment to register what was unusual. Cullen's breath on her neck, his chest against her back, his arm about her waist ... his hand underneath the shirt she wore, with fingertips just barely grazing the underside of her breast. And more than that, too. She could feel a certain rigid heat pressed tight to the cleft of her backside. Good morning to you, too, commander. She couldn't help easing closer against him, rewarded with a sleepy groan by her ear as his thighs tucked more snugly beneath her own. And that hand slid up, cupping about a breast that suddenly sported an aching point under the lazy caress of his thumb. Her skin flushed at the familiar touch of his sleeping embrace, an old friend perking up between her thighs to prickle with lethargic lust.

Yet as much as she was enjoying the unconsciously possessive way he gathered her intimately close, she could just imagine his utter mortification if he woke to this affectionate embrace. It would be worse if he then realized she was awake and aware, she knew. So ... should she try to ease away, or should she feign sleep until he roused from slumber himself? The decision was taken out of her hands almost before she set herself the dilemma. Cullen sighed against her bare neck, just barely stretching ... and froze. Feign sleep it is, then.

Forcing herself to breathe evenly, she kept her eyes closed, achingly aware of him pressed to her back, of the twitch of his cock against her backside as he noted the position he found himself in. He seemed to consider the same dilemma for quite a while, slow to relax against her once again. Then, with gradual care, the hot curve of his palm at her breast smoothed away, the gentle pinch of his fingers in the shirt pulling the cloth down to cover her decently before his hand came to rest at her waist, this time over the thin garment. He stilled for a long moment, seemingly studying her for signs of wakefulness, and eventually edged his hips back far enough that his morning glory wasn't prodding her insistently in the rear. Then, and only then, did he lean over to kiss her neck with soft lips.

"Rory," he called to her softly, letting his mouth draw a tender line over her warm skin to the curve of her ear. "Time to wake up, sweeting."

Given permission to be awake, she heard herself moan tenderly in answer to the play of his lips against her neck, offering up a sleepy smile as he chuckled fondly close to her ear. "You stayed," she murmured, her voice gravelly with sleep.

"Someone made it painfully clear what the consequences of leaving would be," he rumbled in an affectionate tone, the wrap of his arm about her waist tightening for a moment. "It's dawn, sweeting. We don't want to miss breakfast."

Rory groaned through a smile, blinking her eyes open. "Oh, the horror," she teased, wriggling to look up at him as he leaned over her. "I'm really starting to hate meat porridge."

A lazy smile was her reward, even as his lips brushed the tip of her nose. "I'm told there's a merchant in Val Royeaux shipping food this way," Cullen told her, just as sick of basic rations as she was. "We may even get bacon for breakfast by the end of the week."

"Mmm, bacon ..." Now that would be worth getting up for. What incentive was porridge when she had an affectionate commander at her fingertips?

Warm, affectionate ... and unfortunately wedded to his work. Not even lazy kisses were enough to keep him in bed. He lulled her into a false sense of security with those kisses, slow and tender, infinitely wonderful, and abruptly pulled away, dragging the blankets with him as he rose from the bed. Rory squealed as cold air replaced the warmth that had enveloped her previously, automatically curling up to try and preserve some of it.

"You're so mean," she whined, smirking at his chuckle. "Is this how you treat your recruits?"

"Yes, sweeting, I personally strip their beds every morning," he drawled, giving her ankle a quick tug. "Get up."

Grumbling about rude commanders with sexy voices, she had no choice but to comply if she wanted to stay warm. By the time she got to her feet, he was already on the other side of the cabin, rubbing soap suds into his stubble as a lather to shave with. It was a startlingly normal thing to see him doing. Of course she knew he shaved - he never had a beard to speak of - but she'd never really linked the lack of facial hair with the physical act of drawing a cut-throat razor over his skin. It was weirdly fascinating.

"You're staring." He glanced toward her, the hint of a smile playing about his lips at her enthralled expression.

"I have an amazing view," she pointed out easily, her own smile growing as he laughed quietly at her compliment.

"Get dressed before you freeze," he advised in amusement, his attention focused on his own reflection as the razor navigated the line of his jaw.

"I thought I was supposed to be the bossy one," Rory complained laughingly, though she was already moving to do as she was told, her legs chilled in the morning coolness.

It was a surprise to see him so relaxed this morning. She had been sure he'd be withdrawn and sombre after the events of the night, braced to weather a storm of self-recriminations and attempts to prove she would be better off without him. But perhaps he really had heard her last night. It was embarrassing to recall how candid, how harsh, she had been with him. The fear was forgotten in the dawn-light, but she knew it would return the next time she woke to find him in the grip of a nightmare. Her mistake had been to touch him, she realized, though neither of them was truly to blame for what had happened. That blame fell squarely on Uldred, and those at the Greenfell Chantry - the first for causing his trauma, the second for failing to give him the help he needed in the weeks and months that followed. Not that you're supposed to know any of that, she reminded herself as she laced her boots. Last night would have been a perfect opportunity to tell you, and he said nothing.

A familiar clank drew her out of her thoughts, lifting her gaze to find Cullen sorting the pieces of his armor in preparation to put them on. A thought occurred to her.

"Wait."

He looked over at her, surprise mingling with curious interest as she rose, reaching for her belt. Her fingers deftly opened the string of her money pouch, closing around something she'd been carrying close since she'd left Val Royeaux.

"There's something you have to put on first," she told him, a nervous cast to her smile as she turned back. "I forgot to give this to you yesterday."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, armor forgotten for a moment as she took his hand, peeling his fingers back to place the mabari charm into his palm.

Tawny eyes lit with curious mirth dropped from her slightly anxious face to examine what he now held. Rory honestly couldn't describe what she saw in his expression - his whole being seemed to gentle as he considered the dynamic piece resting in his hand, the fluid lines the craftsman had discovered in the polished steel to bring the quintessential Ferelden beast to life. For once, Cullen seemed speechless; silent for so long, in fact, that she started to fidget worriedly.

"I found it in Val Royeaux," she heard herself say, more to fill the silence than anything. "It was ... well, it made me think of you, and ... It was probably a silly idea, but I wanted to give you something. Because, you know, we're apart a lot, and - "

He really was growing a little too fond of stopping her words with his mouth, but she hardly had a complaint to make about it. As his arm wound about her waist, she found her arms rising to curl about his shoulders, her fingers smoothing tenderly over his newly-shaven jaw only to fall to his chest as he drew back, his eyes a-glow with a mysterious kind of awe.

"It's remarkable, Rory," he murmured to her, his gaze falling to the charm in his hand once again. "You bought this for me?"

Something about his almost shy incredulity spoke to her, offering a sense of relief that he did like it, that she hadn't done something utterly ridiculous. Her lips parted in a bright smile as she took the charm from his hand, reaching up to fasten the leather thong securely at the back of his neck.

"Every Ferelden man should have a mabari," she told him, stroking her fingers over the shining ornament that now lay against his shirt.

Cullen smiled just slightly, covering her fingers with his own. "I've always wanted one," he admitted, and she felt a flash of delight at hearing something he wouldn't have shared with the Inquisitor for another two years. "I don't know what to say."

"It's a gift, Cullen," she smiled with him. "You don't have to say anything. I did it because I care for you, and ... well, I'm selfish enough to want you to have something that reminds you of me always."

"You mean the massages aren't enough?" he asked teasingly, his smile soon pressed to hers as she laughed at his response. "Thank you. It's truly wonderful. But I have nothing to give you."

"You don't need to give me anything," she insisted, shaking her head fondly. "It's a privilege just to be with you."

He flushed, touched and embarrassed by her earnest declaration. "I think you may have that the wrong way around, sweeting," he mumbled awkwardly, stilled by the soft kiss she pressed to his cheek.

"That's a matter of opinion," she murmured back, finally reclaiming her hand as she stepped from the circle of his arm. "Finish getting dressed, commander. We have an awful lot of gossips to thrill this morning."

His quiet chuckle followed her as she moved to settle her coat and belt about herself, aware of the tenderness in his gaze with each glance he offered from his own task, following her movement as she made the bed and set the cabin to rights. Neither one saw any need to fill their surprisingly comfortable silence with unnecessary chatter, leaving their unsettled night behind them to face the inevitability of curious eyes and whispered gossip together.

The line past the field kitchen was half-gone by the time they joined it, the majority of those already served seated in groups spread across the training ground and up the steps to the village proper, all with a good view of their return from the woods together. Rory was acutely aware of a few stunned looks among the newer recruits at the sight of their formidable commander openly showing a preference for the company of the senior healer. She was also a little embarrassed by the sheer number of knowing grins, too - it seemed as though almost everyone had at least suspected their relationship was a reality. It wouldn't be much of a surprise to see money changing hands, either. But it was Cullen himself who truly surprised her.

As he rose to turn his attention to his duties, he paused, gathering her hand into his grasp to press a warm kiss to her gloved knuckles. "Tonight?" he asked quietly, leaving their breakfast companions in no doubt.

Blushing, Rory bit her lip even as she smiled in answer. "Tonight," she agreed, hoping Evy wouldn't mind. She was amazed Cullen was prepared to risk it again so soon. But that was his way - he didn't shy away from the fear his experiences had left him with. Why should this be any different?

Out here, where all these eyes could see them, his smile was hidden once more, visible only in the taut pull of his scar and the amber-soft warmth of his gaze as his lips brushed her knuckle again. "Until later."

Drawing her hand to her chest, she must have looked like a love-sick idiot, unable to tear her gaze from his retreating back until a familiar voice spoke nearby.

"So ... you and Cullen, huh?" Kaaras was grinning at her from his own breakfast. "I owe Varric four silver - I was sure you were just Cullen time."

Even as Rory groaned at the awful pun, another voice interjected.

"Do not tease, not about this," Cassandra scolded the Qunari. The Seeker's expression was bright with envious approval. "Such passion is to be lauded. And allowed privacy to blossom."

Good old Cassandra. As Kaaras ducked his head, mumbling an apology, Rory offered the Seeker a grateful smile. She could feel Evy and Rylen itching to ask her all about it, knowing she would have to field her assistant's curiosity all day. Perhaps more disturbingly, she was also aware of the grave watchfulness in Mother Giselle's eyes, the vague hint of disapproval ... but at least Cassandra had her back. It was good to know someone did.

#set in darkness #multi-chapter fic #fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #dai fanfic #mgit #cullen rutherford/original female character #cullen rutherford/rory allen #rory allen #cullen rutherford #kaaras adaar #cassandra pentaghast #presents #kisses #sleepy wake up #morning glory #every ferelden should have a mabari

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shannaraisles · 7 years ago

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Her Beacon And Her Shield - Chapter 23

Commander Cullen Rutherford was not enjoying the delights of Halamshiral. As a Ferelden, he held an inherited distaste for all things Orlesian; as a soldier, he despised all the scheming and politicking. He was a practical man; if a problem needed solving, he preferred to solve it, not wait around and trap someone else into doing all the work for him. Yet here, he was obliged to stand and wait, trusting that others had the situation well in hand. It did not sit well with him, especially when the most prominent of those others was his own wife. The Imperial court watched her like a flock of vultures watches a dying man in the desert, each player just waiting for the opportunity to strike, and he hated it.

It made his blood boil to hear them discussing her - their petty judgments based on her looks, her bearing, the power she held, the influence she wielded. To him, she was beautiful, strong; to hear them dissect every nuance of her being in such derogatory terms was infuriating. They saw her as vulnerable, and were eager to take aim; yet, as the night wore on, he noted a change in those overheard conversations. Plain became striking; dull, charming; weak, strong; and all the while, one word was hinted at, but remained unspoken - dangerous. Whether a danger to themselves or to others, the court began to recognize the merits of staying on the Inquisitor's good side. And this, he approved of ... until they started to involve him.

It began simply enough. Cordial introductions, asinine comments on the ball, futile invitations to dance, that sort of thing. When this didn't draw him into offering anything even remotely resembling a hint of support for their interests, it became flattery - comments on his handsome face, his broad shoulders, his remarkable eyes. Then the innuendo began. Surrounded by courtiers both male and female, he was besieged with increasingly tortured metaphor - offers to tame his dragon, ride his bronto, pet his serpent, and other terrible, obvious attempts to seduce him into coming down hard on their side. Each one he politely rejected, gritting his teeth against angry words when, finally, they began to pass comment on Amelia. He didn't want to know that Comtess Emilie thought his wife's naked body must be glorious in the moonlight, or that Marquis DuBarron had speculated with several of his friends on the sounds the Herald of Andraste would make in bed. He had to quite literally bite his own tongue when the Baron of Val Chevin suggested that the Inquisitor should pose nude for him, so he could paint her as Andraste In Ecstacy at The Maker's Love. But perhaps he should have reacted to that. Perhaps then they wouldn't have started ... fondling him when he wasn't looking.

Maker, the way they behaved was appalling! Didn't they care that he was married? Not only married, but devoted to his wife, who was quite possibly the most powerful woman they were ever likely to meet. Did they think that the whole world should join them in their casual disregard for their marriage vows? Even if he were not in love with Amelia, he would never shame her by responding to these selfish, thoughtless solicitations. Honestly, did anyone ever respond favorably when a pampered nobleman just came right out and offered to be not only their mistress, but their spouse's, too? Quite apart from the sheer presumption of such an offer, it galled Cullen to know that the man didn't make the suggestion from any particular interest in himself or Amelia, but as an attempt to place himself in a position of influence within the Inquisition. He couldn't help wondering if any of them would dare to be so bold if his wife were with him, only to discover that, yes, they would.

He had no idea how she could just laugh off that indecent proposal, but it was a relief to be claimed and pulled out of sight of his annoying band of admirers. It was only a couple of minutes, but it was time enough to reassure her that he was not tempted to stray, and him that she was handling the poison of the court without harm. He envied the fact that she was going to escape for a while, even if knowing she was going in blind gave him more cause to worry. Still, he would prefer a straight fight to all this Orlesian nonsense.

Thank the Maker for that short reprieve, though. The comments renewed as soon as he returned to his post, and this time, there was no gentle build up.

"Tell me commander," the curious comte said conversationally, "are you familiar with the concept of ménage à trois?"

As it happened, Cullen was familiar with the concept, and his angry flush said as much to everyone there. "I don't believe that is an appropriate topic, comte," he managed to say, but the man couldn't take a hint.

"I mention it only because you and your wife seem to share an uncommon bond," the comte went on. "It is well known that the couple who plays together, stays together."

"Let me assure you, my lord, that fidelity is not uncommon in Ferelden, or the Free Marches," Cullen told him firmly. "My wife and I need no assistance to stay together."

"But I have heard that your marriage was not desired by you," a giggly marquise interjected, her eyes fixed on his lips as he gratefully took another glass of wine from the elven servant who offered it. "A man ordered to wed is not expected to be faithful in Orlais."

That bloody book again, he thought, silently cursing Varric for ever having started the damned thing. "I am not Orlesian, my lady," he pointed out through clenched teeth, swallowing another mouthful of wine. "I do not need to take a part in Orlesian pastimes."

"Would you like an Orlesian to take part in you?"

Cullen choked on his wine, groping for a napkin to wipe his mouth and chin as the nobles gathered around him erupted into tittering laughter, delighted with his response to the blunt tease offered to him. He scowled, trying to restrain himself from punching the baron who had made that suggestion. What was wrong with these people? Any answer he might have come up with, however, was thankfully forestalled by the unexpected arrival of Solas at his side.

"Commander, may I?" Without waiting for the requested permission, the elven apostate took the glass from his hand, raising it to sniff delicately at the contents. "Ah, I have discovered the source," the mage said cryptically, removing a small vial from his pouch. "Drink this, commander. I would not recommend taking any more drinks offered by the servants."

"What is wrong with the wine?" Cullen asked with a suspicious frown.

"Aside from being an inferior vintage, it would seem to have been poisoned, commander." Solas made no attempt to lower his voice as he said this, sending Cullen's gaggle of unwelcome admirers into panicked retreat. They scattered from the commander's side, abandoning their own glasses in favor of finding somewhere reasonably private to force themselves to vomit before swallowing down as many antidotes as they could find in the immediate vicinity.

Amusing as that might have been, the context deeply worried Cullen. "How did you know about the poison?" he asked the elf, pausing to drink the contents of the vial. He may not have liked Solas much, but he trusted the man. It was certainly an astringent mixture, the painful tang as he swallowed suggesting it was freshly made from whatever had been harvested within the last hour. "Did Amelia discover something already?"

"In a manner of speaking." Solas was a master at giving unsatisfactory answers, and it seemed that was all Cullen was getting out of him. "You were the target, certainly. Excuse me, I must speak with Lady Leliana."

As the elf slipped from his side, Cullen realized with a start that someone here had tried to kill him. Not Amelia, not any of her private circle, but him. Yet who could have tried it? He doubted his now absent crowd of hangers-on had been responsible, given their collective horror at the mere idea of poison. No, it seemed more likely that the ineffectual contamination had been supplied to him by the servant who had refilled his glass. That, in itself, pointed the finger of blame at Ambassador Briala, but what did she have to gain from poisoning the Commander of the Inquisition? Unless she was the agent of Tevinter ... but if she wanted him dead, he doubted she would have used a poison that didn't seem to have had any effect on him at all. And since it had no effect, how had Solas known to check his glass for poison?

He scowled, angry at the lack of answers, casting his gaze about the room. The familiar bulk of the Iron Bull had taken up station beside Josephine and her sister, no doubt delighting young Yvette; a flicker near Vivienne suggested that Cole was not far from the enchanter, summoned back from his snooping to stand guard. Solas and Leliana had their heads bent together across the room ... and it wasn't long before Dorian came sauntering to his side.

"What is going on, Dorian?" he demanded in a low growl. It was plain to see that the Inquisition had closed ranks in the Inquisitor's absence, but the lack of information was sorely testing his temper.

"My dear fellow, do relax," Dorian told him, but he knew his friend well enough to recognize the tense undercurrent in the urbane tone. "Never fear, for I, Dorian Pavus, am your bodyguard for the remainder of the evening."

"Dorian ..." Now was not the time for teasing. "How did Solas know there was a poison in my wine?"

The Tevinter mage seemed surprised he needed to ask. "Process of elimination, dear chap," he said in a level tone. "When Amelia collapsed, it was simply a case of retracing her steps." He blanched - Cullen was suddenly gripping his upper arm far too tightly for comfort.

"Amelia collapsed?" the worried husband repeated, his voice low but frantic. "Where is she? What happened?"

Dorian stared at him. "Solas didn't tell you anything, did he?"

"Tell me what?" Cullen demanded, fighting to keep his voice low. "What the hell has happened to my wife?"

"Far less than could have happened to you," Dorian said calmly. "Let go of me, and I will tell you."

Reluctantly, Cullen released his grip, feeling slightly ashamed of himself as his friend rubbed the offended limb. He didn't like being kept in suspense, but he knew someone would have come for him if Amelia was in serious trouble. "I apologize," he murmured. "Please, Dorian. Tell me what's happened."

"Very well." Behind the cover of smoothing his mustache, Dorian filled him in. "Shortly after she left the ballroom, Amelia collapsed into Cassandra's arms," he told the worried man beside him. "She is perfectly fine - as far as I know, she is busy slaughtering Venatori in the servants' wing as we speak. Solas identified the poison as he healed her and enlisted a couple of the servants to help him create the antidote; a nasty little concoction from my homeland, I am ashamed to say, known as mortsomnus. Quite literally, the sleep of death. It does have one interesting peculiarity, however - it only takes effect on those who have lyrium in their system. Someone is operating on out-of-date information about you, Cullen."

"But they used it on her," Cullen pointed out, not sure he was happy with Amelia fighting so soon after being poisoned. Still, she was stubborn enough to stay upright until she was out of the ballroom; who was he to suggest she should take better care of herself?

"Interestingly, no," Dorian said, his tone light. "The dose she took was minuscule, or she would certainly be dead."

"And the poison was in my glass," Cullen said slowly, the truth dawning on him. Again? He had put his own wife's life in danger again? "I kissed her. I had a drink, and then I kissed her. Maker's breath, Dorian, I almost killed my wife. For the third time!"

For a long moment, Dorian said nothing, his expression making it absolutely clear how stupid that declaration was. "Glossing over the unnecessary guilt and inappropriate angst," he said eventually, as Cullen flushed under that look, well aware that he wasn't reacting entirely appropriately to the situation. It wasn't his fault someone had tried to poison him, and kissing his own wife was not a crime. "Someone in this room wants you dead. Leliana and Solas are investigating; I am here to defend your noble life. And your virtue, if it comes to it."

"My virtue does not need defen - my life does not need defending," the commander bristled. He was angry now - angry that he had been attacked personally, angry that Amelia had almost died because of it, and angry that he couldn't do a damned thing about it. Leliana was the right person to investigate this, and he knew it.

"Do you have any idea what my favorite cousin would do to me if I allowed anything to happen to you?" Dorian asked, both brows raised above a teasingly serious smile. "Terrible things. Probably starting with my testicles."

Despite himself, Cullen let out a low laugh. The thought of Amelia ever raising a hand against Dorian was patently absurd. "You're sure she's recovered?" he asked, letting the anger go to indulge his concern.

"Perfectly well," Dorian assured him. "Furious, which is just as well. She was wilting a bit before this. And with the antidote in your system, no more ill effects from illicit canoodling on the job."

"We were not -" Catching Dorian's smirk, Cullen sighed, rolling his eyes. "All right, fine. I had her half-naked on the balcony. Better?"

"Not as good as you half-naked on the balcony, but I'll take what I can get," his friend chuckled warmly.

With Dorian at his side, there were no more admirers brave enough to approach Cullen. It was clear to everyone that something had happened - the Inquisition had closed ranks, and as the rumor of poison spread, very few were inclined to continue imbibing so freely as they had before. An aura of tense fear settled over the ball, made somehow worse when it became obvious that the peace talks were breaking down. Gaspard was seen marching away from Celene, shaking his head in disgust. Increasingly, talk turned to war, with the various factions making themselves known as they separated from one another throughout the ballroom.

Into all this walked Amelia, cheeks flushed from exertion, with Grand Duchess Florianne on her arm. Seeing her upright and unharmed, albeit a little disheveled, Cullen found himself breathing more easily again, flashing her a brief smile as the two women passed on the way to the dancefloor. She couldn't respond, but that moment of eye contact unwound the tight knot in his stomach. As the music began, a gentle hand touched his back, Leliana's voice close to his ear.

"Ambassador Briala has someone she wants us to meet," she murmured to him. "Dorian can stay here as our point of contact. I think you will want to hear this, commander."

Tearing his gaze from his wife, Cullen nodded, glancing to Dorian just to make sure. The mage toasted him with his own personal hip flask in answer and, reassured, the commander stepped back into the shadows, turning to follow Leliana around the edge of the room and out onto the opposite balcony. The ambassador was waiting for them, with two of the elves who had been serving drinks all night.

"Commander," Briala greeted him with a nod. "Nightingale. I trust there have been no further attempts on the Inquisition?"

"Not yet," Leliana answered levelly. "We have taken steps to protect our own."

"Then allow me to solve the mystery," the elven ambassador offered. "In exchange for protection, Jennet and Silas are willing to testify against the one who attempted a poisoning in the Imperial ballroom."

"Are they?" Cullen turned a stern gaze onto the two elves. They looked vaguely familiar, but sadly, he had not truly noted the faces of the elves who had been serving him tonight. He would have to improve on that - just because they were elves and servants did not mean they were below his notice. "Who do you need protection from?"

"Lord Trevelyan, the Duchess' betrothed," Jennet burst out. "He wants you dead, commander, and he'll kill us for failing."

"How much did he pay you?" Leliana asked sharply. "Where did you get your hands on such a rare poison?"

"It-it was the lord," Silas stammered. "H-he gave us the b-bottles."

"There was no payment, Lady Nightingale," Briala added. "Lord Trevelyan discovered them working on my orders. It was a choice between obedience and death, and his offer of death would have been lingering."

"He'll not have the chance to harm you," Cullen promised the pair. Perhaps he should have resented their actions, but he knew how this world worked. Don't blame the weapon; blame the hand that wields it. "Do you know why he wanted me dead?"

"It-it was a test, ser," Silas told him nervously. "If you went down to the poison, we were to give it to the Lady Inquisitor. It must have been a bad batch."

"Serves him right for wasting money on Tevinter rubbish," Jennet added in disgust.

"All right, come with me," Cullen told them. "I'll see you to safety."

It was the work of only a few minutes to deliver the two elves to his sergeant, their safety assured in exchange for their testimony. Well worth missing Amelia's dance. So Lorent Trevelyan had finally made his move. He had made no secret of his desire to see all his siblings dead; it stood to reason that he would focus on Amelia now she was the last remaining rival to his inheritance. Cullen wondered if the man even suspected the real reason his plan had failed. If Amelia had not been so insistent on weaning him off the lyrium slowly, he might well have gone back to it, and thus Lorent's poison would have done its work on him tonight. It seemed gloriously fitting that she'd saved both their lives month ago, probably even before her brother came up with his scheme. Lorent had never been able to outwit his baby sister, even when she had no idea what he was up to.

Leliana rejoined him as he entered the ballroom, both of them heading to where Josephine had drawn Amelia to one side.

"Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?" the spymaster asked, sounding inappropriately excited to Cullen's ears.

"More importantly, are you all right?" he interjected, meeting his wife's eyes with anxious concern. "What happened in the servants' quarters? I heard there was fighting."

"The Venatori were there," Amelia told them in a low tone. "Blackwall took a bad hit - Solas is seeing to him now. Between us and Briala's agents, we managed to clear them out, but Briala lost a lot of people down there tonight."

"That explains a little help she just gave us," Leliana said thoughtfully. "I had wondered at her motivation."

Before Amelia could ask, Josephine spoke up. "I hope you had some success in narrowing the field," she said worriedly. "It appears the peace talks are crumbling."

"I'm not sure you could call it success," Amelia answered. "The Grand Duchess just tried to convince me Gaspard is the traitor, but I'm not sure I buy it."

"Florianne and her brother are as thick as thieves," Leliana mused. "But if Lorent was acting on her suggestion ..."

"Wait ... Lorent?" Amelia frowned, glancing between the three of them with curious eyes.

"Is our poisoner," Cullen told her as gently as he could manage. "We have proof, and that you were the ultimate target."

She seemed to sag imperceptibly. "I had hoped he wasn't involved in this," she admitted in a reluctant tone. "Just conspiracy to murder is enough to rob my father of his last remaining child."

"You cannot focus on that right now," Leliana told her - unnecessarily harsh, in Cullen's view, but unfortunately warranted. "What did Duchess Florianne tell you?"

Straightening her shoulders, Amelia pulled her thoughts away from her foolish brother and the consequences of his actions. "She said Gaspard's mercenary captain is in the Royal Wing," she told them. "That he knows about the assassination."

Cullen snorted with derision. That was an even more obvious set up than Redcliffe had been. "Trap," he said simply.

Amelia nodded in agreement. "That's what I thought."

"So what should we do?" Josephine asked in a hopeless tone.

"Well, I'm going to the Royal Wing," Amelia told her confidently. "She's gone to so much effort to set this up, I feel I shouldn't disappoint her. Leliana, have your agents arrest Lorent as discreetly as possible. If I'm right about all this, Florianne won't even notice he's gone." As Leliana nodded, Amelia turned her eyes to Cullen. "It's time. Get your soldiers into position."

"At once." But before she could walk away again, he reached out to catch her hand. "Be careful, Ame."

She paused, looking up at him with a confident smile. "For the first time this evening, I know what's going on," she assured him, rising onto her toes to kiss him in front of all those curious eyes. "I'll be fine."

He didn't wait to watch her walk away, oddly reassured by her confidence that she knew what was happening. The momentum of the evening was finally rushing toward its inevitable conclusion, and he had work to do. He just had to hope that she really did know what she was doing.

#her beacon and her shield #multi-chapter fic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dai #fanfictoin #writing #cullen rutherford/female trevelyan #cullen rutherford #solas #dorian pavus #amelia trevelyan #josephine montilyet #leliana #ambassador briala #halamshiral #winter palace #part 3

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shannaraisles · 7 years ago

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Her Beacon And Her Shield - Chapter 18

"You do realize you're facing the best in Minrathous."

Cullen laughed at Dorian's posturing. "You haven't even set the board yet."

"I feel it only fair to warn you, dear fellow," the Tevinter mage smiled. "A fine commander should be in possession of all the pertinent facts."

"Such as the arrogance of his counterpart?" Cullen's smile was a little smug as he set up his own side of the board.

"Arrogance? You wound me." Dorian paused to lay a hand over his heart, affecting an air of pained innocence. "Well earned confidence, if you don't mind."

Cullen snorted with laughter. It had taken a while to grow used to Dorian - the man's insistence on flamboyance and outrageous behavior masked an intelligence that was wary of making itself known too often. But with his concern over Amelia's friendship with the mage alleviated, Cullen had taken the time to truly get to know him. They made an odd couple - the flamboyant mage and the reserved commander - but their friendship was one that Cullen had come to treasure. Dorian's recent absence from Skyhold had clearly been traumatic for him, and the commander had made a point of taking his midday meal in the tavern with his friend. He had not attempted to find out the content of that meeting in Redcliffe Amelia had been so concerned about, preferring instead to encourage whatever Dorian wanted to discuss. Thus he had been regaled with everything from the Pavus family tree, to the corruption of the Chantry, to the finer points of Ferelden ale, and all the while, he found himself growing more and more comfortable with the mage.

Comfortable enough, in fact, to share his own fears about Amelia's reliance on Warden Blackwall. "He's more than capable of protecting her," he was saying that afternoon as the two of them settled down to their game in the walled garden of Skyhold. "But the way he looks at her sometimes ..."

"My word, is that insecurity I hear?" Dorian teased as he studied the board. "Or is it the creeping serpent of jealousy slithering through your thoughts?"

Cullen scowled at him, but the expression lacked any real anger. His friend was disconcertingly accurate in his teasing. "Jealousy would suggest that I do not trust her," he pointed out, making a reasonably predictable move. "Which is not true."

"Ah, so it is insecurity." Dorian nodded sagely. "But what, I ask myself, do you have to be insecure about? You have a strong position, an army at your beck and call, and a charming wife who clearly adores you, sharing your bed at every available opportunity."

"That's the only time we spend together," the commander complained mildly. "The only time when she is just Amelia, and she often simply passes out. She has too many burden on her shoulders."

"Sweet Andraste, you're so vigorous that she passes out? I should have snapped you up when I had the chance, family bonds be damned."

"No!" How did he always do this? All it took was a few minutes of conversation with Dorian in the right mood, and Cullen could feel the blush rising to the tips of his ears. "I ... that is, we ... haven't ..."

"Still?" The mage didn't look all that surprised, though. "Is it possible you've forgotten how it's done?"

"I am fully aware of how it's done, thank you." Cullen considered the board in front of him, not really paying attention to the pieces. "She is so weighed down with the responsibility of being Inquisitor. She wasn't trained to be a leader - she still winces when a stranger calls her Herald. It ... It doesn't feel right ... to assume she ..."

"... wants to lick you all over?" Dorian finished the sentence with his usual aplomb.

"Yes. No! Maker's breath ..." Cullen blew out a huff of air, reaching up to rub at his neck. "It's your move."

"Adorable though I am, I highly doubt you wish to invite me into your marriage bed," Dorian smirked back at him.

"On the board," Cullen clarified, but it was hard not to smile at his friend's incorrigible humor.

"You could put her on a board, I suppose," the mage went on, considering his next move. "For all I know, that is a common form of Ferelden foreplay. She is a Marcher, though."

"Dorian." The word was a warning; as much as Cullen enjoyed the man's company, there were some things he wasn't prepared to be teased about.

"My chevalier advances," was Dorian's innocent reply as he made his move on the board. "Slowly and safely, with absolute chastity. Which would appear to be your problem, my friend."

Distracted from his study of the game, Cullen looked up. "What?"

Dorian's dark eyes were uncomfortably knowing. "Simply put, old chap, you're being too chivalrous," he said, startlingly serious for once. "Amelia is a lovely woman, but she's not what you'd call bold with her desires. I think a seduction is in order. Besiege her modesty."

"The way you are with Bull?" Cullen raised a brow, breaking into a low chuckle as Dorian huffed and rolled his eyes.

"The finer points of subtlety are not necessary with that gloriously muscled ox," he answered calmly. It was no secret that the Tevinter mage and Qunari mercenary were frequently keeping company these days. "Though he would probably give you some pointers, were you to ask. That Ben-Hassrath training is certainly wide-ranging."

"I would rather not have my personal affairs become common knowledge," the commander pointed out, sacrificing one mage for a better advantage on the board between them.

"My dear fellow, for all his faults, he is the very soul of discretion," Dorian assured him, snapping up the mage without considering the game. "Your forces are diminishing, commander."

"A small team of highly skilled professionals can lay waste to an entire army," Cullen countered easily. "As our Inquisitor daily proves."

"Ah, I think I see another flaw in your thinking," the mage beamed. "Just who is our Amelia to you? Is she a mage? Herald of Andraste? The Inquisitor?"

"She's my wife," Cullen growled, not liking the line of questioning.

"And yet you refer to her as Inquisitor," Dorian highlighted pointedly. "You address her as Inquisitor. Before all of this, she was simply Amelia. She needs someone to see her still as simply Amelia. Who better than her husband?"

"I don't -"

But he did, didn't he? He'd stopped using her name outside letters and the privacy of her quarters. He'd reduced her importance to him personally, by elevating her importance to Thedas. Even when he spoke of her to others, it was always The Inquisitor, not Amelia. Yet it hadn't always been so. In Kirkwall, he had taken an almost absurd pride in taking every opportunity to refer to her as his wife. So why was he so reticent now? Under Dorian's knowing gaze, he could feel the shape of the answer. He loved her. And with that love came a crushing fear of hurting her, of doing anything that might drive her away ... yet that careful distance was inexorably widening the gap between them. Without intimacy, that gap was only going to broaden.

Cullen sighed, shaking his head as he made another seemingly inconsequential move. "All right," he conceded reluctantly. "But I have no idea how to change that. Surely it would seem selfish, to be so abrupt."

"Which is why you seduce her," Dorian reiterated. He frowned at the board. "Ah, now I see your plan. You let me charge your front lines and attack from the rear." He slid a templar over a few squares. "I'm not falling for it."

"A good commander can always adapt to changes in his opponent's strategy," Cullen mused, a little teasing himself now. To be fair, he and Dorian were evenly matched, but playing this game always brought out his competitive side.

"And you are good, commander." the mage smirked back at him, delighted when his own tease produced another of those brilliant blushes. "Think of it as a siege. You have to weaken her defenses before you storm her battlements."

"Are you saying I should court my wife?" Cullen asked suspiciously. "Flowers and love notes and terrible poetry?"

"Maker love you, what a dreadful idea." Dorian laughed. "You're not Orlesian. Nor, I hasten to add, are you in a position where you need to earn the right to her time. She is, as you say, your wife. Subtlety is your friend here."

"I don't have the first idea what you're talking about," Cullen confessed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Touch her."

Cullen gaped at his friend. "What?"

Dorian's laughter echoed across the garden, raising curious glances and unintended smiles at the infectious sound. "Your face is a picture!" he crowed, letting his merriment fade in a long sigh. "Oh, my dear Cullen, you are a treasure."

Cullen's expression darkened, flustered by his companion's teasing. "Shall we talk about something else?"

"Not until you understand what I'm saying," Dorian told him firmly. "I have no doubt that you are more than proficient when it comes to the act. What you need is for Amelia to crave your presence in that way."

"By touching her." To say Cullen was skeptical was something of an understatement.

"Whenever you can," his friend agreed. "No grand gestures, nothing indecent. You spend all that time in the war room - what's to stop you from touching her as you plan our next moves? Let your fingers linger on her skin whenever the opportunity presents itself, stand a little closer than you might usually do, speak a little softer so she has to lean close to hear. Don't draw attention to what you're doing. And when those gloriously erotic thoughts cross your mind, make eye contact with her. Let her see how much you want her."

"Oh, I ... I couldn't do that," Cullen objected, feeling himself blush once again. Quite how Dorian knew that his mind strayed often to those gloriously erotic thoughts was beyond him, and deeply embarrassing to consider. "I-I shouldn't be thinking of her that way."

"Who is she, Cullen?" Dorian asked sharply.

"The Inq-" Cullen cut himself off with a defeated sigh. "Amelia. My wife."

"And, pray tell, just how should a husband be thinking of his wife?" That impossible brow was arched perfectly above a pursed smile as the mage waited for the penny to drop.

"All right," Cullen grumbled, removing Dorian's second templar from the board. "It doesn't come naturally to me."

"Then you make it happen until it is second nature," the mage told him. "Enjoy your fantasies when they come to you. Get used to imagining her in all sorts of debauched situations - in your bed, across your desk, in the confessional of the chapel - and I guarantee you won't be stumbling over that pesky title much longer."

"I do not intend to debauch my wife in the chapel!" Cullen protested, probably a little too loudly. Voices carried in the garden; no doubt that little outburst would join the annuls of gossip within the hour.

"Spontaneity adds spice - planning everything in advance will make it feel clinical," Dorian agreed, half-teasing, half-serious. He chuckled at the look on his friend's face. "All right, I'll have mercy. But not on the board. My dear fellow, you're looking death in the face."

"There's still life in this army yet," Cullen countered, neatly taking his opponent's divine with a pawn he'd been patiently positioning for the last fifteen moves.

"So the Chantry falls." Dorian accepted this blow philosophically, repositioning his king in response. "But the Chantry is not the ruler, and he still holds all the cards."

Cullen grinned. "Gloat all you like, I have this one."

"Are you ... sassing me, commander?" the mage asked mildly, approval radiating from him as he smiled. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Why do I even ...?" A shadow fell over the board - Amelia, released from her never-ending fitting with the seamstress Josephine had hired to outfit them for the upcoming ball at Halamshiral. Cullen lurched to his feet. "Inquisi - Amelia!"

The smile he got for using her name was worth the clumsy delivery. Cullen felt his expression soften as he met her gaze, forgetting for a moment that they weren't alone. With the weather turning crisp as autumn advanced onward, she wore a sturdy leather vest over her red shirt, a scarf about her neck, and even a little disheveled from the persistence of an Orlesian seamstress, he thought she looked absolutely lovely. Dorian, however, wasn't the sort to accept being forgotten.

"Leaving, are you?" he asked cheerfully. "Does this mean I win?"

Cullen hesitated, torn between conceding the game to spend time with Amelia, or soundly trouncing Dorian for that excruciating conversation they had only just finished with. It was a surprisingly hard decision to make, but Amelia decided it for him, evidently remembering how often they had played together in years gone by, and how often he had enjoyed winning once she was good enough to offer a challenge.

"Please," she told them both, gesturing to the board. "Don't stop on my account."

Relieved, Cullen smiled once more. "All right," he said, retaking his seat with a nod to Dorian. "Your move."

"You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory," Dorian told him, making a move which might have won him the game if Cullen hadn't been the one to set it up in the first place. "You'll feel much better."

"Really?" With an air of absolute innocent, the commander put his opponent's king in checkmate. "Because I just won, and I feel fine." He chuckled at the look of disgust on Dorian's face, gratified to hear Amelia's soft laughter echoing his.

"Don't get smug." The Tevinter mage rose from his seat, evidently a graceful loser, despite his words. "There will be no living with you. Now, fair cousin, I take it the ladies are waiting in breathless anticipation to fit me into one of those tasteless uniforms?" he asked Amelia, who snorted at his description of their ball attire.

"They're quivering with excitement at the very thought of you," she teased her friend warmly.

"It would never do to disappoint them." Dorian sighed affectedly, offering her a grin as he passed. "There will be a rematch, commander. A good campaign requires strict planning and discipline."

Cullen just about kept himself from grimacing at that parting shot, half-risen from his own seat once more. His gaze turned to Amelia, finding her smiling at him in that innocent way that made certain parts of his body want to stand up and take notice. "I should return to my duties as well," he heard himself say, feeling a thrill at the fleeting disappointment that colored her face. "Unless ... unless you would care for a game?"

Amelia's moment of disappointment fled at his invitation, her warm smile reappearing as she stepped forward. "Prepare the board, commander."

Relieved, and pleased, with her agreement, Cullen resumed his seat, reaching to gather the game pieces back to their rightful positions as she took up the chair Dorian had so recently vacated. It felt ... good, familiar, to glance up and see her there, tendrils of dark hair escaping from her braided bun to brush her face as she took a moment to study the board between them before making her first move.

"So, what is this campaign you're planning with Dorian?" she asked curiously.

Cullen felt the blush start at his neck and creep upward. "I ... he's been offering insight," he came up with, not quite answering her question but hoping it would be enough to still the advance of the blush rising on his face.

"I didn't know we had any operations in Tevinter," she said, her voice thankfully free of any suspicion. "Not since those templars we sent dealt with his friend's problem."

"It's a domestic affair," he told her, warming to his half-truth. "Not serious enough to concern you with. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it to him, but now he seems determined to plan every detail for me."

She laughed softly. "At least he's helping. I'm glad you two have become friends."

If he'd had an ulterior motive for befriending Dorian, her soft smile in that moment would have been reward enough. She was very fond of her cousin from Tevinter, after all, and it meant the world to her to have the only two remaining members of her family getting along. As it stood, her approval was simply the icing on the cake. But he still found himself smiling back at her, pleased that she was pleased with him. "He has grown on me," he admitted in amusement, "though I could do without the graphic descriptions of his sex life."

Another laugh erupted from her at that. "I never thought I'd hear you say anything like that," she giggled, resting her chin in her hand as she surveyed his last move. "Though I think it can more reasonably be called a love life at this point. Neither of them has ... strayed, since they started keeping company."

He stared at her, bemused by the confidence with which she expression that notion. "How do you even know that?"

"Simple gossip around Skyhold will tell you that Bull's stopped visiting his horde of admirers at night," she shrugged, as though this was obvious. "And Dorian seems to need to talk to me about it. He's very vulnerable under all that debonair bluster. I might have to warn Bull against breaking his heart."

"I would pay good coin to be there when you do," Cullen chuckled fondly. Though she had come on a great deal, and there were times when her tongue was sharp enough to scratch diamond, she still had difficulty being stern with the people she loved. And she did love her motley band of friends.

"I can be scary," she protested mildly, a small smile growing under his amused gaze. "Not very effectively, but I can."

"And, of course, it is the thought that counts," he murmured teasingly. How long had it been since he'd felt this relaxed, this much himself, in her company? Too long, certainly - not since before she'd left Kirkwall. Ironic, that it took a game of opposing sides to remind him how well they meshed together. Dorian would be proud of him ... and speaking of Dorian, the mage's advice came to mind as Cullen watched her reach for her chevalier. "I wouldn't make that move if I were you. May I?"

At her surprised but acquiescing nod, he covered her hand with his own on the little mounted figure, only then remembering that his gloves were tucked into his belt. Though they slept side by side each night she was in Skyhold, this was the first direct contact they had shared outside her quarters in months. He drew her hand over the board, depositing the piece in a better spot ... and heard Dorian's voice in his mind's ear. Let your fingers linger. And so he did, letting his callused thumb stroke over her unmarked palm in an innocent caress that made her cheeks color as she drew her hand back. But she didn't look displeased with his touch, far from it. Perhaps there was something to Dorian's advice, after all.

Biting her lip, Amelia smiled almost shyly, rubbing her own thumb across her palm as she tore her gaze from his, looking down at the board to discover the mistake he had prevented her from making. "I'd forgotten how good you are at this," she said in a soft tone.

Buoyed up by the color on her cheeks and the warmth in her eyes, Cullen took the opening she offered with confidence. "As a child, I played this with Mia," he told her, shifting a piece of his own. "She would get this stuck up grin whenever she won, which was all the time."

"I did wonder where you learned that expression," she teased him, her voice fond behind her smile. "I've seen it a few times myself."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Years of losing taught me to enjoy my wins," he defended himself. "Anyway, Branson and I practiced for weeks together. We were determined that one of us was going to beat her. The look on her face when I finally won ..." He grinned at the memory, that victory still sweet after all these years. "I wonder if she still plays."

"Maybe I should ask her for advice on how to beat you," Amelia suggested, eyes wide in consternation as she watched him take one of her priests and put her king in direct danger.

"She would relish the challenge, I have no doubt," he smiled comfortably. "I do not write to them as often as I should."

"Of this, I am painfully aware," she chuckled in a playful tone. "She's writing to me now. She wasn't very complimentary about you in that first letter."

Cullen snorted in amusement as he considered her strategy on the board. She was already on course to lose, unless ... "I'm sure she wasn't," he agreed with his wife, knowing Mia's colorful turn of phrase intimately. "Have you heard from any of your own family recently?" He didn't mean her father and brother, both of whom he would happily drop down a well if given the chance, but her extended family, which extended quite a way.

"My great-aunt, Lucille, managed to get a letter past Josephine," she replied, her voice rich with amusement of her own. "She wants to throw a ball in honor of the Inquisition, to prove that not all Trevelyans have disowned me."

He grimaced openly. "Isn't it enough that we have to appear at the Winter Palace?"

"Don't look so worried," Amelia laughed. "I was very diplomatic, but very firm. No balls until at least Corypheus is dead. I did encourage her to raise our reputation in the Marches, though."

"I'm sure Josephine would be proud," he complimented her. "Is this the Great-Aunt Lucille who insisted on throwing that ball to mark our one-year anniversary?"

"That Great-Aunt Lucille, yes," she confirmed with a nod.

"Maker, that was a terrible evening," he groaned, surprised he remembered it so vividly. "Why in the world did she invite so many Orlesians?"

"Fashion, I think," she mused, though there was no way to be certain. Lucille Trevelyan often did things for no reason at all. "It wouldn't have been so bad for you, if you hadn't insisted on wearing your armor."

"Sweet Andraste, hours of endless enquiries about what was under my surcoat," he complained, a blush staining his cheeks at the memory. "And tortured innuendos about my sword. I was receiving letters from complete strangers for weeks afterward, trying to discover if I was open to having a mistress. Female or male."

"You could have avoided a lot of that if you had just deigned to dance with me," she reminded him, her smile suggesting she was enjoying teasing him about one interminable evening, five years in the past.

"I don't dance," he told her stubbornly. "At any rate, if I had been dancing, I wouldn't have heard that slimy baron offer to ... to ..."

"To fulfill my every carnal desire," she completely the sentence when he trailed off. "He seemed to be under the impression that all templars take a vow of chastity, as I recall. Hands everywhere. Lucille has always maintained it was the highlight of the evening, watching you throw him into the fountain."

"I'm delighted she enjoyed it," Cullen murmured wryly.

"She wasn't the only one," Amelia assured him rather cheerfully. "The cling of his soggy silk that night saved quite a few lords and ladies from a crushing disappointment at a later date. As I understand it, he'd been making claims that certainly did not have an anchor in reality, as we could all see after you'd made your feelings clear."

He stilled, shocked by what he was hearing from his sweet, modest wife. Not only that she'd looked, but that she'd been aware enough of the gossip to understand that the baron had been attempting to seduce every man and woman in the room. He was impressed, though, if he was brutally honest. He'd never really given her enough credit for how observant she was when surrounded by her peers. "I'm not going to ask," he said finally, quiet laughter bubbling free to mingle with her own in the autumn-touched garden.

"Oh, I've missed this," she said as her laughter faded, leaving a tender smile on her face that was just for him. "We should spend more time together."

His own smile gentled, touched by the desire she expressed to share his company. Could it be that Dorian was right about her feelings for him? "I would like that," he confessed, his voice soft with loving shyness.

"So would I," she answered in kind, sharing his shy smile as their eyes met over the board.

"You said that," he whispered, almost afraid to hope that this strangely intimate moment was truly happening.

She blushed, biting her lip, and suddenly he found himself fixated by her mouth. Soft lips he had not yet plundered as he longed to called to him, so near and yet too far to reach out and pull her close. Yet that did not check the sudden flourish of his imagination as, in his mind's eye, he pulled her into his lap, their game forgotten. She would curl to him as his lips hungered for hers, sharing that greed only to gasp as his fingers found the clasps of her tunic, flicking each open with deliberate slowness as his mouth trailed over the smooth softness of her throat. In his imagination, she was tender and willing, arching into his touch with a soft groan as his hand found the bounty hidden beneath her tunic ... and in reality, he found himself shifting in his seat as those thoughts produced a very physical response. And not just in himself - Amelia's eyes darkened with desire to match his, even as she swallowed and glanced away, blushing and shy, and wanting, under his almost predatory gaze.

"We should ..." Go to bed, his libido demanded, but Cullen was not yet so far gone that he had forgotten the constant presence of eyes and ears all around them. "... finish our game, right?" The flicker of disappointment in her eyes made him smile roguishly, promising himself he would do this again. She was so responsive to just a look; how far could he tease her before she found the courage to be bold with him, he wondered. "My turn, I think?"

Swallowing to wet her throat, she looked down at the board. "I haven't the faintest idea."

He laughed, the sound warm and easy, allowing them both to ease back from the intensity of that silent sharing into gentle companionship over the game laid out between them. It took every ounce of his self control, but he did manage to lose the game, suppressing his desire to win just to see her smile again.

"I believe this one is yours," he said eventually, leaning back to meet her eyes. "Well played."

Amelia scoffed, letting out an incredulous laugh at his gracious defeat. "You let me win," she accused.

Cullen attempted to look innocent. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," she giggled, shaking her head. "So I'll play again sometime?"

"What makes you think you didn't win fairly?" he asked. He was genuinely curious - he didn't think his strategy had been that obvious. Did she really know him that well?

"Because I haven't played for three years, and you eat, sleep, and breathe strategy," she countered with a fond smile. "That, and I only ever won twice in Kirkwall. You are much better at this game than I will ever be."

"Then we will simply have to play more often, Ame," he challenged her with a smile of his own. "Your grasp of tactics has improved, though, you know."

"Not enough to beat you at chess," she chuckled, glancing up as a shadow fell over them. "Leliana, what brings you out of the bird cage?"

The redheaded spymaster glanced between them, no doubt seeing more in that one glance than Cullen was entirely comfortable with her knowing. "Inquisitor, commander," she greeted them. "A message has arrived from my agents tracking the Tranquil, Maddox." She handed Amelia a small message capsule.

Cullen sat forward, his expression alert as Amelia opened the capsule, unrolling the slip of parchment within to scan the words there. "Well?" he asked, unable to restrain his eagerness.

She looked up, handing him the parchment to read for himself. "They've located Samson," she said tersely. "We can make it in four days if we ride hard. We leave in an hour."

"Josie will not like that," Leliana commented mildly.

"Then you keep her busy until we're gone," Amelia told her, rising to her feet. "We'll be back in time to ride out to Halamshiral - it's still a month away, for goodness' sake. This is more important than etiquette lessons, Leliana."

"I agree." Even Cullen was surprised to hear the spymaster say that, but Leliana did see more than anyone else could imagine. "I have already instructed my agents to advance as far as is feasible while awaiting your arrival. There will be fresh horses at every camp you pass on your way there."

"Thank you, Leliana." Turning away from the spymaster, Amelia met Cullen's gaze solemnly. "One hour," she told him. "With luck, this time he's ours."

He nodded, already striding away to prepare a pack for the journey. After all this time, they had him. Samson wouldn't escape, he was sure of it. He couldn't escape. There were too many questions that needed answers. Four days until he looked into the eyes of his former brother and demanded to know the why that had eluded them since this hunt began. He owed it to every templar, every innocent, that had been corrupted or killed by red lyrium to get those answers, no matter the cost. And if the price he paid was death ... then so be it.

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