#ameridan:ic

[skyheld]

"You can't blame yourself." from asharen to ameridan

ASKBOX MEME 059 / ARCANE S02E07-09 | selectively accepting | @mercysought

It's the second time he leaves a place where he was meant to die.

Stands up on shaking legs, brushes the dust of time off his clothes and picks through the remains of his old life for things he needs to keep. There isn't much left, now. He gave most things away when he joined clan Lavellan, to the few friends he has made in the last ten years, or to the clan itself. He had no need or interest then in riches or treasure. Only a few keepsakes.

Some people watch as he comes out of the aravel. The last few weeks as his strength waned he left is more and more rarely, and while many come to visit him, there are some faces he hasn't seen in all that time --- faces of those he was never close to, or who felt too uncomfortable to sit in a room with a dying person, seeing the way life left him a little bit more each week. When he steps out now with a small pack slung over his shoulder and the staff in his hand, he stands straighter than they've ever seen him. There's strength in his legs, carrying him down the landing, and in the hand that holds his staff. His eyes are unclouded, his lungs draw deep the air of the forest around them. But he doesn't look at those faces, even the ones he loved most dearly. He's afraid they'll turn away.

And anyway, how can he ask for them to look at him? How can he deserve a heartfelt farewell from these people when he failed them so utterly? They took him in so he would be safe, so he would know peace. He risked their lives, allowing a demon to possess him. He brought them war.

Thanks to that they live, but he isn't sure that matters.

"I do not blame myself", he tells Asharen as they meet below the aravel's deck. She sees through him, of course, sees the guilt clawing at him from the inside, but it isn't blame. "I did what I did to save them. Now I live with the consequences. I just wish... I wish there'd been another choice."

Hakkon looking out through his grey eyes, seeing the things he sees and adding his thoughts and emotions to Ameridan's mind, blurring them both. Hakkon coming to him that night when the clan was attacked, Hakkon's strength in his dying body, Hakkon tearing their enemies to shreds, laughing with Ameridan's voice but not his laugh, not his joy in the killing.

He wishes the others didn't have to see it. That they didn't have to look at him now and know that the one they called hahren and bestowed the name of their clan is an abomination. That his back is straight and his hands strong and that he stands in the sunlight again because something else is standing with him.

Ameridan Talvas Lavellan, he was for a while. But he cannot use that name anymore.

"We should be off", he says. A little further away, others are waiting for them to catch up. New faces, but they seem like good people. The one they call Rook has put together a capable group. Harding. He'll need to tell her too when they reach their sanctuary.

He's not sure if it's grief or shame that wells up and fill his eyes with tears, but he turns quickly, lowering his head to brush them away. He wanted to stay here. He didn't want to die, but he was ready to let it happen as he knew it would; he got the peace he always yearned for, and if it had to end, at least it would end in the best way possible. But now all that is different, and that peace is gone.

You are making this so much harder than it is. Hakkon has been quiet in his mind, and now that he speaks it sounds like mockery. And yet he is right in a way. Staying here, thinking about what he's walking away from makes the walking harder. He needs to just leave. Without another word he brushes past Asharen and joins the others, giving a single nod of his head when Rook asks if he's ready for the walk to the nearest eluvian, if those are all his things, is he is alright---

But before they've reached the edge of the camp, where signs of recent battle are still visible, blood drying brown in the grass where Hakkon's battleaxe tore throats and chests open, someone cries out behind them. A girl has escaped her parents' vigilant eyes and come running, calling his name.

Elirin. She's lost two front teeth since last he saw her. When he was strong enough to sit by the fire and tell stories, she'd ask for ones with Da'harel in them, then curl up with her head on his leg and pretend to be a very small wolf while he spoke. Now she wraps her arms around his legs and sobs into them until he manages to untangle himself from her grip so he can crouch down and hug her properly. Her parents wouldn't want him to. They'd worry about the demon. But he can't push her away, and he knows there is no danger.

She's holding a straw hat, like the ones the members of the clan make for themselves and to sell. At first he thinks she must have just been working on it when she saw him leave --- it's clearly her handiwork, childish and clumsy and therefor lovely --- but she presses it into his hands.

"Oh", he says, as his hands close round the brim. "Is it for me?"

She nods, her face set with determination.

There clearly is no fighting that. He would hurt her if he tried to decline. Blinking away more tears he takes the hat and puts it on --- it's a little large, probably not made for him to begin with, but it stays in place if he's careful. There are places where the straw sticks out and places where the woven pattern breaks. He loves it. One of the adult's perfectly crafted hats wouldn't have filled him with as much love as this one. "Thank you", he says, voice brittle. "That should keep me safe from the sun in Antiva."

Satisfied, Elirin turns to run back to her parents. Ameridan straightens up. The straw hat casts a shadow over his face until he turns back to the others, facing the sun.

Ameridan Talvas Lavellan. Maybe he keeps the name, at least for now.

"I'm ready", he says, and this time he feels it. "Let us go."

[skyheld]

He was glad they were close to finishing. It hadn't taken long, but Ameridan could feel the strain to his back after sitting bent over the plants, arms outstretched to reach the ones furthest away. Doing something practical rather than stay inside to rest all day felt good, and he was sure it had been good, for his mind if not his body - whatever the healers would say.

"It was my pleasure to help", he assured Niamh, even as he straightened carefully to give his spine some rest. There was just one row of plants left; he just needed a moment before he got started on it. "Though I'll leave the watering to you. This has been enough for me."

He said it lightly, with just the barest sigh showing his impatience. He would accept his limitations for now. That didn't mean he liked them or would accept them forever.

Niamh's smile turned soft. "She's wonderful. She's one of the kindest people I've ever met. I miss her. I haven't been to visit her in a while...maybe when everything settles down, I can go home and see her." For now, though, the Inquisition needed their healers.

She settled back on her knees to inspect their work. "It's looking great. Thank you so much for helping me!" There were still some more weeds to pull, but Niamh was pleased with their progress.

"It shouldn't take us much longer to finish. Then I can water everything."

[skyheld]

"There's no good version of me." from the priestess to ameridan

MEME TAG | not accepting | @mercysought

But she is wrong.

She is wrong, and it angers him that she will sit here so calmly and lie to him. He thinks more highly of her than that. He expects better.

What she means, he thinks, is that he's yet again trying to fix her and she's yet again insisting he shouldn't. And on this account she's right. It was never said out loud, never even a conscious thought, but that was how it was: he wanted to fix her because he thought that he could, and if he could he had to. It was a duty and a right; a must and a need, and only when he pushed her to the point of breaking did he begin to see that it was wrong. The hurt she carried was never his to lift or carry.

He is learning, little by little, to remove that instinct as a piece of himself no longer useful: he's plucked from the place between his ribs where it lay chafing, and crushed it.

There is still the instinct to soften her purpose, and even more so her methods. When her cruelty shows itself, he sees Drakon slaying the Daughters of Song, and he wants to turn his back on her the way he did on Drakon then—they way he should have long before that. The instinct to mediate is still there, but the instinct to demand the means must justify the end is removed, taken from the lips where Drakon gave his last kiss, and with which Ameridan condemned him for his actions. The Priestess is not Drakon, and Ameridan is done wavering between one cause and another; Orlais and the Dales, mages and the Chantry, the Maker and the Creators. He has chosen. He will continue to choose this.

That does not mean he will be silent. He is still his own, and he has never been one to keep opinions to himself.

And on this matter, his opinion is that she is wrong.

"Good is subjective. There is a better version of you. I know because you would not be saying this if you were so far gone you could not see the fault in your actions; and if you can see the fault in your actions then she can choose to act differently. I have seen you do that. I have asked you to do that, and you have. You are already a better version of yourself. And every time you are not that version, that is a choice you make."

Just as he has made the choice to be worse than he could be. To embrace her decision to see this world end one way or another. That is his choice, and he has to live with it.

"At the end of the day you will do as you wish. Do not hide behind the statement that it is all you can do."

[skyheld]

Only tell me what I must do. I will be faithful. - abelas to ameridan (@weptduty)

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE PART II | accepting | @weptduty

He lifts his head from the mass of papers spread across the floor of the aravel, rubbing at his eyes. The light is dim and his head hurts from squinting over his own writing, the disorganized takings of measurements and notes on experiment results all blending together in his mind until he cannot tell one thing from another. Where did he write down the calculations from the series of experiments he did yesterday? Why on the back of a research paper written by the Inquisition's rift mage?

Ameridan isn't good at this—this scholarly part of magical research. Give him a spell to experiment with and he will come up with a dozen ways to cast it; that's how he and Telana found out the limits of time magic, by pouring all their power into various iterations of the spell and noting what worked and what didn't. None of them were very good at theory. Note-taking hypothesizing, making precise calculations they left to other mages. As long as they had power and it was safe enough, they'd do things the practical way.

But that was then. They were powerful and confident and well-versed in the type of magic they were researching, and they knew if one unleashed something unexpected, the other could take care of it. They had a host of other mages at hand if they wanted to do something that required both of them. Now he is alone, manipulating the Veil in ways he never has before, and his power is waning. Theory is where he must start, and it has to be right. He cannot afford to fail.

He is, after all, trying to outdo its creator.

It is futile, of course. Pointless work, meant to occupy his mind until it catches up to the failing of his body, until it too slows and stops and there is no more being useless while he waits for others to solve a conflict he cannot take a side in. There is no way he will find something, discover something, the Dreadwolf has not already found. But he has to try. It is what he does, he supposes. For as long as his heart is still beating it will beat with hope.

"Abelas..." He blinks at the papers no longer in his hand. Abelas puts them back on the floor but leaves some room for themself to sit down, holding out a cup of the tea the Keeper brews to dull the pain in his joints. Ameridan takes it but doesn't drink; it will make him sleepy, and there are still some notes to organize while they are fresh in his mind. "What I am asking... are you not going behind Solas' back getting this information to me? He has his solution. He would not want you to help me finding another. If you know that, and you do it anyway, you're lying to him by omission. I cannot ask you to do that."

He already has. And he already knows Abelas will do it. But he feels guilty.

"You are faithful. It is what you are", he says, even as he finds the list of what he needs from elsewhere: books written by those who have researched the Veil, materials for further experiments. "I am asking you to be faithless. It isn't right."

[skyheld]

@weptduty cont from x.

There's an air around Abelas. A sense of something held in check, tempered --- a sharp blade sheathed, a hard edge not softened, but held in such a way it cannot bruise. Ameridan was not at the Temple of Mythal --- too weak now for such long journeys, such arduous battles --- but he has heard the Inquisitor and their companions speak of the ancient elves they met. Unwelcoming. Intimidating. And he can see that, in the way Abelas carries themselves, but it doesn't feel intimidating or unwelcoming.

He means what he said. Something feels familiar. Sorrow. They are both lost and they have lost.

He sits by the fire, legs crossed and back weary. His strength is returning, though slowly. This is good, he thinks. A journey with no real purpose but to see what is out there. They can go at their own pace, or rather at his.

He does not even need to cook for a change.

"That is a start", he says, meeting Abelas' gaze and returning the smile, faintly. They do not come easily to him, but they must not come easily to Abelas, either, and so when they other elf makes the effort, so must he return it. "We are not strangers, not entirely, even though we are. It is..." He pauses, gaze falling onto the fire. "Solas mentioned that sometimes we --- we elves, that is, or we elves of now --- can understand a word in our language even if we do not know it. Like it is still there in our blood. It feels like that, I think."

[skyheld]

Gale was right, they should rest. Fighting through the hag's lair, and then against Ethel herself at the end of it, had worn everyone down to their bones. No one had suffered any worse injuries than what magic and potions they still had at the end of it could take care of --- at least to the point where everyone was standing. But it would be nice with a rest, and they weren't fit for another battle.

In the time it took them to get there, he'd have gathered his thoughts. Maybe he would be able to speak without everything pouring out.

"You know best, as usual", he said --- teasingly, though it wasn't entirely untrue. "Let us head back, then. Maybe you will even let me help with the cooking. I can chop some vegetables for you, at least."

"Well, I'm glad someone does," Gale said cheerfully. It felt... good, to hear that someone actually liked to listen to him talk, rather than just waiting for him to shut up. He was pretty sure that was what Astarion was doing every time he opened his mouth.

To his own surprise, he found himself wanting to talk with Ameridan more. Not just as a listening ear, but as a friend, a companion. Wanting to know more about him and everything he had faced over the years.

"We don't need to discuss such things here." Gale gestured to the swamp around them. "We can go back to camp, break open one of these bottles of wine, and then you can let it all out, if you like. Or, we can simply chat while I cook us dinner."

Such things were often best discussed around a campfire regardless, for reasons Gale didn't quite understand. But he'd found it true enough, that secrets were easier to tell by the light of the fire than in the bright lights of the city. At least, for him, anyway.

[skyheld]

( SHOULDER ) holding mine's shoulder from behind, leaning down to whisper in mine's ear. + ( CHEEK ) kissing mine's cheek, pausing and moving away. - abelas to ameridan

TENSION STARTERS | selectively accepting | @weptduty

He's so absorbed by what he's reading he doesn't notice Abelas coming up behind him.

The books are the one improvement this time has over his old one. When he saw the library the first time, he thought it must have been collected over hundreds of years because how else could you gather that many books in a single place without emptying the coffins of a small kingdom. It took half a year for the majority of the collection to get there, he was told, and only because the chaos made transport difficult, and they had other things to focus on. People keep books laying around their homes like they aren't worth a fortune --- ordinary people, not nobles leaving them out for show even though they need a scribe to get them through a single sentence. There are books on science, books on magic, books on the lives of historical figures, books with the same kind of morality tales he remembers from his own time. There are books written purely with the intention of being funny. All that time, and ink, and paper, used not to teach but to entertain.

He wishes he'd have time to read all of them. Looking at the shelves lining the rounded walls of the tower, knowing there are thousands of books not represented here, he knows he never will. But he's content to pick out one of them, sink into one of the armchairs and disappear into a far away place. Only for a little while, he thinks - an hour, maybe.

When Abelas comes to find him, the candle has burnt low, and he's straining his eyes to read. He doesn't notice their approach until he feels their hand at his shoulder, startling him slightly. When he takes his eyes off the pages, he's surprised to find the light dim in the library.

"Oh, it's a good", he replies to the whispered question, smiling. "I forgot the time. I don't think I understand everything --- it is one of Varric's, so it's very modern, and some of it---" The rest of his words are muffled as Abelas leans down to kiss him, catching the description of the plot and main characters from his lips. Alright. Ameridan lets the book fall into his lap and twists in the armchair for a better angle, reaching up to pull Abelas closer.

"Let me finish the chapter", he says when they part. "Then you'll have my full attention."

Abelas kisses his cheek in reply, then draws back --- but they remain nearby, leaning on the backrest of the armchair. Maybe they're reading over Ameridan's shoulder to see what was so exciting he had to finish it, or maybe they're just making sure he doesn't forget the existence of time again. Either way, he doesn't mind.

[skyheld]

❛ You cannot know how frightened gods are of pain. There is nothing more foreign to them, and so nothing they ache more deeply to see. ❜ - from abelas to ameridan

BOOK STARTERS VOL.56    CIRCE    MADELINE MILLER | @weptduty | SELECTIVELY ACCEPTING

"I suppose that explains this."

Ameridan looks at his hands, clasping each other in his lap. The vallaslin has faded so much by exposure to weather and sunlight, it can no longer be seen stretching across the carpal bones and out towards his knuckles. Closer to his wrist, though, it's still visible, faint lines growing fuller as they go up his lower arm, where sleeves have protected most of the time. More grey than lilac now, but still with a hint of that colour.

It was pain, the vallaslin. Hours upon hours of it to cover his body in them. It wasn't done all at once, of course; it was only his face at first, and then years later he added more, then yet more. But the pain had been temporary, and he hadn't minded it. The pain wasn't the point, he'd thought: pride was, in himself and in his people.

It had been a choice. No one had coerced him. He had wanted it.

Now he thinks differently.

"Pain was the point", he says, hollow. "If all the Evanuris wanted was control there must have been a way to gain it without hurting. With the power they had it could not have been beyond them. The vallaslin was meant to hurt. Because..." He wants to pull the sleeves down over his wrists; he doesn't. It is there. He made the choice. It is on his face anyway. "Because if they were frightened of pain, but yearned to see it, then it must have made sense to them to inflict it on others. They were children hurting younger children when they're not yet old enough to understand that it is wrong --- except they did understand, but thought themselves above caring."

He should be angrier, he feels. Somewhere he is, and someday he'll find that anger and make use of it. But at the moment all he feels is sadness. What Abelas tells him, what they have to tell him, is like taking a knife to his heart and carve out pieces.

He always knew gods could be callous, but not like this.

"Maybe they wanted to understand it", he says, lifting his head slightly towards Abelas, their face, too, marked. "Because it was a sensation unknown to them and, being gods... they could not abide anything being unknown to them. If they could not and would not feel pain, they had to find some other way to master it."

[skyheld]

Not angels. Men only, but men with voices that would not shame angels. At nightfall they light a hundred thousand candles, and everywhere there is gold and music... - for Ameridan!

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE | selectively accepting | @hoboblaidd

The ruin was a ruin in his own time. It bears no trace of having been restored by his people—likely it would have been had there been time and resources, but a nation two centuries old and founded by slaves hasn't the riches to restore every ruin within its bounds, not while building cities and clearing fields and raising livestock and turning itself livable. Roots and vines have claimed the crumbling marble. Arches remains where walls once stood, and the ceiling is only a suggestion.

But what remains—the stonework, the details in marble and mosaics—is such that what Solas describes comes alive. He has a way of doing that; it seems less about what he says and more about the emotion with which he says it, the inflection of certainty, of truth. There isn't an abundance of words, but there's intent behind the ones he uses. Here, his words fill in the arches and finish the ceiling. From there it is no trouble to imagine candles and singing and gold and music.

Sitting on the cracked steps of sweeping stair, Ameridan ruins a hand over the carvings in the floor, following the worn lines of a star's rays through the marble. "It is... funny", he says, not able to find a more fitting word, "in my time.... we had singing and candles too, and if I ever tried to picture something more than that—more sophisticated, more magical, like what Arlathan is supposed to be... I think I would have arrived at something similar to this time. Like the Winter Palace, or the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. That may not have been a hundred thousand candles, but it was not far from. I do not think my imagination is enough for another leap."

The first time he saw Val Royeaux in this time, with its golden gates blazing in the sun—he thought about the Golden City from the Chant of Light. It was no comforting thought.

His hand finds the center of the star and comes to rest there. "You have seen all this for yourself, Dreaming? How do you—find them, these memories? My wife and I walked the Fade sometimes in her dreams, but we never found places like these."

[skyheld]

But there is peace here, peace beyond anything. I see you have felt it. - (i'm on the wrong blog) abelas for ameridan

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE | selectively accepting | @weptduty

Ameridan rests his head on Abelas' shoulder, the warmth of the afternoon sun easing the ache in his bones.

In the years since they left the Inquisition, he has seen many of the places in which the Dreadwolf—Solas, Abelas would say, but he is still Fen'harel in Ameridan's eyes even though he is also Solas—operates through his agents. The narrow alleyways of flea-ridden Alienages where city elves are sharpening their short blades, Dalish clans who have cast off their old beliefs and embraced knowledge older yet, other places scattered all over the world where ears and eyes are needed.

He suspects there are far more than he has seen. Ameridan has not so much committed to the cause as he has sworn not to reveal it; he has refused responsibility, refused to take a side. Too often in the past he tried to fight for two causes at once. This time he cannot fight for either. It seems unlikely that he's been told any vital secrets, that he's been given any important keys. He is here with Abelas, nothing more.

This place is different from most that they've been to. Too remote to be useful as a base of operations, the Dalish clan has lived peacefully for generations on lands skirting the Tirashan forest. They have sworn themselves to Solas, but their promise of aid is healing and protection, not killing. So their lands have become a refuge of sorts for people who need to disappear temporarily, for things not so much needed at the moment as they need to be guarded for later, for objects and secrets that are of little use but great value.

It is a good place. Far from the Alienages and the fighting, it is a place of sunlight through trees and gentle rains and the horrors of the world outside. Ameridan sinks into that feeling, though isn't certain what their they are doing here. The clan does not need them, nor does it have anything they need.

Yet as they sit on a small hill overlooking the camp, their hands intertwined, Ameridan resting his head on Abelas shoulder, they speak. And Ameridan understands.

Of little use and great value.

He looks at his hand, nestled in Abelas'. It has grown weaker just these last months, until carrying his staff for long stretches of time is wearying, when before he'd do it without even thinking. It is late spring now, and the winter was heavy on him, heavier than any winter he can remember save those centuries in Hakkon's grasp. He does not feel like he's recovered from it. He feels like he's always thinking he's still recovering from something, but he never does; the aches and ills only end up on top of each other, and none of them ever disappear. He can still fight if he must, but it is getting so difficult. The journey here was slow and agonizing, and he fears the return will be worse.

He tries to spare Abelas the worst of it, but he can't keep it from them. They will know—they have to know. He has to prepare them for the inevitable.

And—he has, hasn't he?

"Oh", he says, a breath spoken into the crisp morning air, as his hand grasps Abelas' more firmly. The realization hits slowly, or maybe his mind is slower now because he is always so tired. This is Abelas telling him he understands. This is Abelas making an arrangement he might not have had the inner strength to make himself just yet. This is—an offer.

He needs not fear the return journey. He does not need to make one. He could stay.

He could stay, until...

He's glad he has his head on Abelas' shoulder, that they cannot look at each other directly. No matter how much they speak of it, how fully he accepts it, the thought that he will die becomes so real for a moment, and it— it scares him. It does. He isn't ashamed to admit that. The death is natural, and so is the fear of it.

Haltingly, his voice the first ice of autumn that cracks at the slightest pressure, he says: "Yes. You are right. There is peace." And, "I have felt it." And, "Abelas, I—"

But there is nothing more to say.

Abelas squeezes his hand, feeling his distress, and Ameridan takes a breath. There hasn't yet been a question. He doesn't yet need an answer. This is a promise, nothing more.

"Stay with me", he says, knowing he doesn't need to say it.

Abelas will stay as long as he asks. He is the one who will leave.

[skyheld]

The blood holds. From the priestess to ameridan

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE | accepting | @mercysought

The blood slides down the edge of the blade to gather at its tip, a drop of raw, quivering power.

The Fade whispers in that drop. Demons stand ready beyond the Veil to take his mind the moment he gives in. His heart screams to let it fall, let it go, but why should he? How could he? He has a task now, a cause, and this is what he needs to fulfill it. This power, any power. It hurts no one. It isn't the blood magic of the Magisters of Tevinter, the lifeblood of slaves and prisoners. It's his own, willingly, easily given. Just a few drops of blood down the edge of the blade.

Ameridan holds his palm out, and the drop falls into it. Power seeps into his skin, his hand. The Veil parts. The Fade whispers in his veins, all the way up along his arm; demons reach forward, but he doesn't let them in. The power is his. He can use it, easily. The basic principles he already knows. All they need is refinement.

To trap Hakkon and himself in time he used his blood in the simplest way, as a way to regain the mana needed to cast such a powerful spell—blood instead of the lyrium he would have used, if he'd still had a single flask of it. But there are other ways to use it, to manipulate it. His own or that of others.

For now, he uses his own. The Priestess would use that of her enemies—he has no doubt she knows how to use that of her allies should she wish to. Maybe he will too, eventually. Maybe this is only how it begins; maybe this is only the edge of the abyss, and from here he will only slip further down. Maybe he is only holding on to an illusion of honour, while he threw the real thing away long ago. But if so, he still isn't ready to get rid of the illusion too.

"The blood holds", he repeats, quietly, closing his eyes. "Very well. What is the next step?"

[skyheld]

[ stolen ] - abelas to ameridan (@weptduty)

LAVISH BALLS, PARTIES, AND SECRETS | accepting | @weptduty

It's a familiar tune. That of the dance and the steps and the looks and the whispers. They dance, not with each other, but they dance because they're always aware of the other across the wide open space of the dance floor, and every movement they take is done to reflect the other. Every step taken through the field of rustling silks, under the swinging chandeliers, they take conscious of the other, of the distance growing or lessening. They look, sometimes like an arrow shot straight through the crowd at distance, sometimes up close and lightning-quick. And when the dance brings them close enough, there's a whisper in passing. The secret crackles like fireworks under their skin, but they have to keep it. They have to make do with the dance, the steps, the looks, the whispers.

It's familiar, but it's not the same tune. It's not a bitter one. This used to be all Ameridan had, this small, secret thing that couldn't ever be dragged into the open without cowering in shame. The dance and the steps and the looks and the whispers, all that he had. But it isn't like that anymore. This is just for now, just in this moment, on this occasion. When they leave they'll have more. They'll have as much of each other as they want. So it isn't sad, isn't small; it's a secret that crackles like firework under their skin, giddy with anticipation.

The dance, the steps, the looks, the whispers.

The kiss is a surprise, though he should have seen it coming when the steps led them away from the ballroom. He is speechless; then he's blushing.

"Abelas—" It's not their first kiss, not by far, but there's something so forbidden about this one, so irrational, it makes him slide his hands around the back of Abelas' head to pull them down towards him, "we really shouldn't—" and Ameridan's kissing them again, deeply, fireworks on his lips, "this is so irresponsible—"

The dance, the steps, the looks, the whispers, the kiss in a secluded corridor away from the ballroom, the way a strand of dark hair falls into Abelas' face before Ameridan reaches up to tuck it back in. It's a familiar tune, but it's not the same.

He likes this one better.

[skyheld]

( FRUIT ) sharing a piece of fruit with mine. - abelas to ameridan

MEME TAG | not accepting | @weptduty

The practice of splitting fruit into small pieces is a leftover from the Second Blight. They said the Blight could get into the food and that was how people turned into ghouls though they'd never even seen the darkspawn, so everything had to be broken apart and inspected, and anything that couldn't be confirmed to be safe would be thrown away. Ameridan doesn't have to check very closely anymore; the habit is going out of his bones where it used to sit, as deeply rooted as the habit to check the skies for dragons before moving into an open area. But cutting fruit into slices is so easily done, he does it without thinking.

And with a—friend, he still feels that compulsion to make sure. It would be one thing for him to bite into the apple and find a taste like the air under the archdemon's storm, ash and rot and metal. It would be another to hand that apple to Abelas.

They watch while he makes neat slices and removes the core from each with small, effective cuts, keeping as much as possible of the edible flesh. Nothing will go to waste, if it weren't for Abelas he'd eat the core too, because there's nothing quite like thinking you have to throw away any food that can be unsafe that will make you hesitate before you throw away anything that is safe. Speaking of, the apple has a brown spot where it's been handled roughly and he puts those pieces aside, they are for him, the good ones are for Abelas, they—

Somewhere there, between one thought and the next, his hands go still. He doesn't need to think like this. Blight, starvation, even the unpleasant brown spot. None of them are real concerns.

He wipes the dagger on his trouser leg before slipping it back into its sheath, then carries the plate over the where Abelas is sitting.

"I am sorry it took a while", he says, and sits as close as they have grown accustomed to sitting, holding it out for them. "It should not take so long, cutting up an apple." But as Abelas reaches for a slice, he can't help but add, "not that one—it has a brown spot. Leave it to me."

[skyheld]

"What tale will you have tonight?" from storylover Faust @witchsabre for Ameridan

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE | accepting | @witchsabre

If day and night passed at the Lighthouse like it does anywhere else, it would be dark by now and the stars, such as they may be in the Fade, would be out. Dinner is over, the table has been cleared and dishes washed. Hakkon, for once, is pleased that they've eaten well, quiet and complacent like a cat who tricked its owner into feeding it twice. It makes it easier for him to keep them together when they do the bare minimum to stay healthy.

It is the right time for fireside stories, then. No matter the place, no matter the age, this seems universal; nighttime is for tales spoken low to the flames, or songs sung under the breath. Some of the others retreat to their own rooms, but a few do gather; coffee is brewed to perfection, as are four types of tea in individual cups. For a while they chat over their cups, continuing discussions from the dinner table, until they go out.

In a break in the conversation, Faust looks at Ameridan and asks: "What tale will you have tonight?"

He brings the teacup to his lips, drinks to give himself time—he wasn't ready for it to be his turn to pick. Before he can decide, something makes him frown, and tilt his head down as though to listen to something very close—a voice whispered in his ear, though there's no one there to whisper.

"Of course you want that", he says under his breath. "But they asked me, not you." A pause. "Fair enough. They have never asked you." His gaze returns to Faust, expression somewhere between apologetic and slightly amused. "Hakkon wants to hear a story about your first battle. Or your first kill. Whatever is more interesting, I suppose." He thinks for a moment, tapping the side of his teacup with his finger. "I would ask for a tale where things are solved peacefully. Your pick."

[skyheld]

No, no, it really must be you. - for ameridan

THE BEAR & THE NIGHTINGALE | accepting | @hinterlnds

From the hill where they take their lunch they can already see the research outpost, nestled behind a palisade between the steep slopes of the valley. It's close enough to smell the cookfires and see little shapes of soldiers moving between tiny flapping banners. The Inquisition scouts could make it there in an hour at most, even with the steepness of the cliffs; they wouldn't have felt the need to stop for a rest this close. But neither Ameridan nor professor Kenric have the strength for that climb and will have to take a longer route around the cliffs, and with that and the fact Ameridan is slow to traverse even the easier terrain, it's still a few hours of travel left. A pause before that final push is needed.

Ameridan doesn't mind it. It gives him a little more time to prepare.

The soldiers are... eager to meet him, he's been told, in a way that makes it clear that eager doesn't quite cover it. He understands. He saw it in the scouts coming to escort him from Stone-bear hold, the way they wanted to stare but didn't quite dare to, the thousand questions burning their tongues. They thought he was a hero who stepped out of a storybook, until a few days in the wilderness together made it very clear he's not much of a hero at the moment. It will he like that at the research outpost, but with more people, and some captain ordering everyone to stand to attention because the former Inquisitor is coming, boots polished and tents inspected with twice the vigor as usual, making everything bigger than it needs to be.

In a moment of weakness looking down at the camp, he speaks quietly to the one scout who dares to sit beside him while he tries to eat. Maybe she and the others could go ahead and he could go in later, quietly, when no one pays attention. The soldiers are waiting for a hero to arrive, but they don't actually know Ameridan, his story hasn't been told around their campfires until maybe the last few weeks in the basin when it's become relevant. Maybe they'd be just as happy with another hero. Someone who saw the whole discovery from start to end and was up close when the dragon fell. Maybe that would be enough to quell their enthusiasm and then they won't make such a big deal out of his arrival later.

It's a foolish suggestion. Scout Harding shakes her head. "No, no, it really must be you."

And she's right, of course. He knows that. He just has to grin and bear it. Soon enough they'll see like the scouts did that he's not that different from them—more an old warrior than an old hero, and above all a person.

But—not until they've seen him.

"You're right. I know." He looks down at the outpost again, breaking a piece of bread apart in his hands. "I know it must be me. I shall simply have to endure it." He has never been shy; that at least is something. Telana would have found it terrifying, but to Ameridan, it's mostly uncomfortable. "There was a time when I... enjoyed that kind of attention", he admits. "I'll just have to pretend. It usually passes quickly."

[skyheld]

i feel a need to pretend that none of this is happening to me. - hulwen to ameridan

NETWORK EFFECT | selectively accepting | @wepthonor

Spray from the waterfall crashing through the broken ceiling at the end of the corridor fills the air like fine mist. It gathers in dewy drops in the folds of clothing, freezes in droplets on the skin and makes the torches sputter. The dungeon is an inhumane place to keep prisoners, especially one who hasn't yet been condemned; one who, as Ameridan understands it, gave himself up in order to save lives. Ameridan has run cold ever since he woke up in the frozen Tevinter ruin, and despite the Avvar coat he was gifted from Stone-bear Hold, he's shivering where he stands on the other side of the iron bars.

But he eyes the man inside the cell with clear, curious gaze. Hulwen, he names himself, but apparently he has borne another name, a name which was taken by a demon. Or so he claims. Demons muddle everything, and what history Leliana has pulled from records and rumours about this man is... contradictory. A Chevalier Would you speak to him? the Inquisitor asked Ameridan. Help me make sense of it? You understand demons better than I do.

Maybe he does --- it was one the Inquisitor's duties back then, to seek the truth where mages and demons were concerned. Ameridan has dealt with demons and their victims --- and their collaborators. If he can help deciding which one Hulwen is, he will certainly try. Guilty or not, he deserves to be judged by the truth.

"Open the cell", he tells the guard standing beside him. At her odd look, he shrugs and explains, "I will speak to him outside. It is too cold for conversation here."

He leads the way out of the dungeon proper, to the guard chamber outside where he points to one of the chairs in front of the fire and takes the other. The guards remain close at hand, watching, though Ameridan doubts it will be needed. Hulwen gave himself up, he won't try to escape. If it makes them feel better, though, let them remain.

"The Inquisitor asked me to speak to you", he says, as the warmth from the fire reaches towards his fingers. "To figure out what to do with you. If you are guilty, and what you are guilty of." He glances at the other. "You do not defend yourself."

The reply comes after a few moments: "I feel a need to pretend that none of this is happening to me."

Oh, he knows that feeling. He knows it so well. It's raising a shield against the thing that will hurt you, even though the shield is only in your mind and the things that will hurt you are real. It does not help, but you try to raise it anyway.

Ameridan softens, looking at the young man. "I know", he says gently. "But it is happening. You have to find the strength within yourself to deal with that." He remembers what Leliana told him the Chevaliers do on the night of their initiation. If this man is who he says he is, he was once a Chevalier. Elven blood in his veins and on his hands. How can he speak to him so gently?

His gaze turns to the fire. "I have experience with demons. Tell me of this Imshael."