#ameridan:ic

[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]

Dhavi approaches Ameridan while festivities for Wintersend are at their peak. She carries a bundle wrapped delicately in brown paper and string, which she holds out for him. Unwrapped, it reveals a box of lavender incense and a fired and glazed clay incense holder in the shape of a bear, who will hold the incense out over a tray to catch the ashes. Bundled with the incense is a note with the name of the merchant from which she bought the incense.

“I don’t know about you,” she explains gently, “but with so much on my shoulders, I struggle to sleep at times.” She hesitates and ultimately decides not to add that she doesn’t have to live in the world she’s creating, for better or for worse. “This helps me, though. And if that is an issue, I hope it might help you, too. If not—” she laughs a little, shrugging “—well, it smells good.”

Ameridan doesn't expect a Wintersend gift. Not a personal one, at least --- he's aware he's still a symbol of sorts to some people and an opportunity to others, and he expects some meaningless things meant to appease him and the Inquiition, make them remember the giver when considering their allies. It won't be anything close to the ludicrous gifts he'd be presented with when he was high in Drakon's favour (so much extravagant jewelry he'd never use. hats he and orinna would die with laughter while trying on in private later. a live bird. you can't give a live bird to someone who's travelling eleven months out of twelve---) but it will be something equally unwanted. He's asked lady Montilyet to make sure he won't to accept any in public.

This is something else. He knows by its plain wrapping and the way she's giving it to him in private, and the fact that she's Dhavihal, there won't be anything ostentatious about this gift. He's surprised and happy to receive it, a smile (still rare, but this one is genuine) crossing his face as he takes it. "This is kind of you", he says as he opens it, taking care not to tear the paper (it's so inexpensive now, they tell him, but it still seems such a waste to ruin it). As the gift unwraps, he's not sure at first what it is he's holding, but her explanation makes it click.

"Dhavihal, this is..." It's perfect. Sleep doesn't always come easily, and when it does it isn't always restful, though he doesn't want to admit how right she is in case she'll worry. "This is very thoughtful. I--- think I'll have use for this. Is it lavender?" He holds the box of incense up to smell it. There's something calming about the herb's scent, even before it burns. "Thank you, truly."

[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]

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."

[skyheld]

❛ I wake sometimes in the dark terrified by my life’s precariousness, its thready breath. ❜ - from abelas to ameridan

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

Skyhold at night is never fully quiet. There are the guards patrolling the battlements, the bartender cleaning up the Herald's Rest after the last visitors have stumbled outside, and high up in the mage's tower a light and the silhouette of someone bent over a desk, scribbling. But there are pockets of solitude, of quiet; little nooks hidden within the fortress's walls where one can go to be entirely alone.

Or almost entirely alone; they have found each other here, after all. Something stirred Ameridan from sleep and won't let him return to it. Maybe Abelas is here for a similar reason.

"Oh, you..." It's on instinct, and thoughtlessly, that he reaches for Abelas' hand. He stops himself, let's it hover. "Creators, I did not think... you are no longer immortal, are you? Unless you go back into uthenera you will--- age?" and die. The word unspoken feels heavy as it falls between them.

Fear of death has never been particularly strong with Ameridan. He has felt it, of course. Mostly in those moment when it has seemed inevitable. It would be a terrible thing if he didn't feel it then, if he was indifferent. But for someone who has lived so long and who should by rights live for so much longer, someone for whom death was once more accident than inevitability... what is that dread like? What is the greying of a single strand of hair when it should never have changed colour at all?

Ameridan himself is a reminder of that end, the lines on his face a map of what has been lost. Does Abelas ever think of that, looking at him? That he is what the fall of Elvhenan looks like?

"I am sorry", he says, his hand still outstretched in offering. "I have nothing to say that will make that burden easier, except that I will stay with you, if you wish."

[skyheld]

He hadn't meant to turn the conversation onto himself. His regrets regarding Drakon were meant to mirror hers, he wanted to assure her that the trust she put in others, which some people considered a weakness, had rarely been a weakness in the much more numerous years Ameridan had had a position of command. Drakon was one, and that would always stay with him. It was impossible to know if he would have gained or lost more if he'd been less trusting. But it wasn't in itself a weak trait. That was what he wanted Kali to know.

But her words were kind and heartfelt and he didn't want to dismiss them. "I am not arrogant enough to think I could have solved every issue the early empire had", he said, smiling slightly up at her where she sat. "I was an impossible task, I see that now. Maybe I see it more clearly watching you do something similar. I would never expect of you what I expected of myself back then, and that is not saying anything about your capabilities, it's just... how it seems, looking at it from the outside. With problems like the ones you have, there's nothing to be done but your best."

That was easier to say to her than to himself. When doing one's best still left thousands dead from the darkspawn horde, or mages locked in towers, or the elven nation fallen and splintered... it was difficult to consider that enough. But they'd all dealt with that, Ameridan wasn't alone in it. Drakon himself had done his best, according to his understanding of what that was. He had done his best to unite the world under the Chant of Light. He had done his best to stamp out the resistance. He had done his best to rule.

"For the longest time I tried to stay on friendly terms with Drakon", Ameridan said. Åska shoved him lightly with her nose; he was still scratching the base of her horns, but distractedly now, too lightly for her to really feel it. "I thought he'd be more likely to listen to me. That is where I went wrong. I should have made it clear he was walking down a path I could not follow. I should not have followed."

before the inquisition, kali had very little experience with the world outside of her clan. her natural curiosity was tempered by her fear, only learning the stories of her people and the occasional tale from a passing merchant or the spirits in the forest and plains. being suddenly thrown into the wider world and its history had been a rude awakening, as well as a headache. she wasn't the sort to just accept knowing bits of information. with so many world shaping decisions in her hands kali had a duty to be as informed as possible.

learning about drakon, all he had done, it had upset her. the religious fervor and brutal expansionism involved in his rise and rule left a bad taste in her mouth and in her heart.

"you were embroiled in drakon and his rule in the moment. now hundreds of years later we have hindsight to shape our opinion of the choices he made, as well as the consequences. the circle, templars, chantry." kali spoke kindly, understanding and compassion in her gaze. "you're a good person, ameridan. forced to make hard choices that would shape the world in ways no one could imagine. rulers will do what they will, no matter how hard people like us try to sway them. gods know my own experience with orlais and the empress were difficult. to have to live through its inception, deal with the troubles that come from the beginning of an empire and come out alive..."

she finished brushing elgar, giving her hart a kiss on the nose before she perched herself sitting on the stall wall between their mounts, legs kicking under her. the small woman was often found sitting in precarious places high up, dorian joking that 'she just likes to feel tall for once'.

"drakons mistakes are his. do you really think you could have swayed him from his more extreme actions? or would that just have ruined any chance of having any kind of say?"

[skyheld]

[ groom ]  - Ameridan

❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE . | @dalishflame | ACCEPTING! [ groom ]  your muse adjusting mine’s appearance , such as straightening a tie , fixing their hair , or buttoning their shirt for them , etc .

There's a small noise of annoyance coming from the former Inquisitor as Atreion stops him just as they're about to return to the ballroom, then leans down to flip the collar of his red Inquisition coat back into its correct position. A small detailed missed as they got their clothes back in order; they cannot look like they've been running around the Winter Palace gardens, fighting Venatori between the hedges.

"Thank you", Ameridan says as the current Inquisitor steps back to scrutinize their work. The annoyance, of course, isn't directed at Atreion. Despite being corrected, the collar still feels too tight. "If I look presentable, let us return at once so we can finish this. I cannot wait to return to our quarters."

[skyheld]

( DRINK ) offering mine a cup of a chosen drink. (example: tea, wine, poison)

Tea for the priestess and ameridan mayhap

TENSION STARTERS | @mercysought | accepting!

It isn't the first time they've sat here on the ledge overlooking the pass to Skyhold, snow whipping around them and the frozen trees creaking in the wind. The Priestess is a statue, stillness under the heavy cloak. Ameridan hands are curled around the cup, steam wrapping around his fingers, but he does not drink. The cup is an anchor while his mind is elsewhere.

In his head he hears the captive magister's screams as a lyrium brand is pressed against his forehead. He smells the flesh melting away from that much raw lyrium, sees the terror on the magister's eyes, the fury --- then the nothingness as emotion is snuffed out as a candle in the wind. The scream stops. There's a gasp for air, and a sigh. Relief. That is what tranquility feels like. Coming to the surface after a long time drowning, finally breathing with ease. It isn't that, but it feels like it. Ameridan would know.

He didn't have to watch. The new Inquisitor chose not to. She passed her judgement, then stepped from her throne and went to have dinner. There was no remorse in her eyes as the magister was lead away in chains, just as there was no remorse when she gave the templars back their power and status and trampled the mages underneath their collective boot, or when she made herself the darling of the court of Orlais with no thought to the people staggering under its rule, or when she forced her way through the Temple of Mythal with no need for those standing in her way.

But as she walked away, Ameridan followed the magister as he was hauled back down to the dungeon and watched the Rite through to its completion. It was not kindness. The magister would have ruled the world alongside Corypheus, but there are some punishments that should never be used no matter how much one may deserve them, because they give permission to others to consider them. He said as much to the Inquisitor, but she has never cared for his opinions. To her, he is a disappointment. She wanted a great Orlesian warrior she could see herself reflected in, not an elven mage warning her about the dangers of devotion.

Ameridan walked away from her with a decision already made. He headed back to the small room lady Montilyet has given him, fetched a warm cloak to endure the cold winds on the mountainsside, and brewed tea --- two cups, clay ones with metal lids to be easily carried. He knew where he'd find the Priestess.

"I will leave Skyhold." They have sat in silence for a while before he speaks, the decision made but the words to announce it slow to form. "The Inquisition, that is. I can no longer stand by and watch it sully its name and mine. I will not be complicit." The cup lowers into his lap, thumb grazing the rim. There is both fear and relief at having spoken it out loud. Fear because he is lost in this world, and while the Inquisition has displeased him it has, at least, given him a place to stay --- a place to learn how thinks work now, what nations and peoples exist, how they talk, what a fork is and how to use it. Relief because the thought he should leave is still more agonizing than the decision that he will. A decision is always better than doubt.

"I would have done so long ago", he says, "but I did not know where to go. I have no one and nothing. I could hide myself in an Alienage or with a Dalish clan --- clan Ghilain would accept me, I know --- or I could, I suppose, turn myself in to the University of Orlais, be a puppet there instead of here. But I--- I will not. Of course I will not. Whatever I can do to right the wrongs I did in the past, the wrongs that have been made since my time, the wrongs the new Inquisition is making, I have to do it."

He takes his gaze from the whirling snow and fastens it now on the Priestess. It is strange --- he does not know her name, he knows so little about her, and so much of what he does know tells him he should not trust her. But then, what does he know about anything? What choice has he ever made, what decision, that turned out right?

"You know people", he says. "In and Alienages, among the Dalish, you know people and you have plans. You have a cause. I..." He swallows. He understands why so many go on the defensive when they make a mistake. If he could take his pain and hatred he feels for his own actions and swing it --- would he really care who he hits? "I have always had too many. I never could settle for one. Maybe that is where I went wrong. I tried to see everything from so many perspectives... so in the end I could do nothing significant for any of them."

It isn't true. It doesn't feel right as he says it. And yet...

He did not scream like the magister when the lyrium brand was held to his forehead. He was apprehensive of the risks, but not afraid. He trusted fully that the Maker and his Creators would keep him safe. Now that invisible brand mars his spirit, and the Rite is used to punish and control. So, again, what choice has he ever made that turned out right? Where has faith ever led him?

He doesn't know. He knows nothing. He places his future in the Priestess' hands because she speaks as though she does.

"Would you let me come with you?" Still looking at her, the expression which even in anger at himself has been calm, cracks --- he's not asking, but pleading. "Would you have use for me?"

[skyheld]

( WIPE ) wiping something (example: make-up/dirt/blood/tears) from mine's face. - Ameridan

❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE . | @dalishflame | ACCEPTING!

For a cleric, battle isn't over when the enemies are down. That just means it is time for the second phase, a battle against time and their own limitations to piece the wounded back together, bone by bone, vein by vein. It's no wonder they forget themselves sometimes in the aftermath. A small healing spell to keep themselves on their feet, but the rest must be spared for those who truly need them, and as for cleaning themselves up ---- that's for later. Much later.

But then Ameridan looks up to find that none of the injured left in the wake of Marcus' attack on the inn are untended. It's sudden, or it feels that way --- one moment he kneels by a Harper who's chest has been torn open by a Winged Horror's claws, and around him others are in similar states, lying bleeding on the floors. The next he has looked up, the Harper's soul slipped through his fingers before he could stop the bleeding, and there's no one else. Other healers are tending to or have already helped the other wounded.

He barely has time to process --- to realize that this part is also over --- when Atreion drops down beside him, a basin of water and a washcloth in his hands. "Oh, Atreion, it's too l---" he starts to say, but the water isn't for the Harper. Instead, Atreion reaches over and wipes a smudge of blood from Ameridan's cheek.

It is over, that gesture says. Now you rest.

There's a drop of his shoulders, a quiet acceptance. Wordlessly he holds out his hands. This is nothing new, they've both seen battle before but --- he would like the Harper's blood from his hands. And though he could do it himself, he'd like Atreion to do it this once.

[skyheld]

"it’s so good to hear you laugh. you don’t laugh enough." - for ameridan from ziphrane. i think i already sent one for this meme so feel free to disregard but i'm 👀👀👀 abt these two always

BEYOND THE STORM | @fatesown

"That is unfair. I laugh as much as I am able to", he protests --- though she is right. As much as he is able to still isn't much. There was a time when he laughed as easily as summer's warmth; now it is rare and brittle, a pale winter sun barely reaching above the horizon. He doesn't want to be someone who makes things sad. If she says he laughs too seldom, then for her he must endeavor to do it more often.

He rests his head on her shoulder and tries to find it again, the thing that allowed him to laugh, the lightness. A story comes to mind, a happy one he thinks --- he thinks. It is strange how difficult it is to tell when someone is happy sometimes, like he has forgotten what that means. "When I was young someone told me I laughed too much. A Knight should be grave and stoic, he said, or they will not be taken seriously. Can you guess what I did?" He twists his head slightly to look at her, to catch her reaction. "I laughed at him, too. I did not care for people taking me seriously, even as an Emerald Knight. I would much rather make them smile."

[skyheld]

[ swipe ] sender notices a smudge of something on receiver's face and gently wipes it off. (+ Ameridan. Food? Dirt? Blood? Who knows;; )

BEYOND THE STORM | @winterfollows

"...I am making a mess, aren't I?"

He laughs, tilting his head slightly (being taller than his companion is a rare but pleasant change) so Haleir can reach to wipe whatever it is off his cheek. The small kitchen towards the back of his house in the Lower City was a mess before and is even more of a mess now. But he hasn't made food for anyone else in so long. It has just been him and Little Dread and the wolf would much rather have a raw steak from the butcher's than anything that has ever been close to an oven. So what if Ameridan gets flour everywhere and the pie crust is uneven; he is distracted from baking by the fact that he has someone to bake for.

"Thank you", he says as Haleir steps back --- meaning less for the clean-up, and more for the company. "Whatever would I do without you?"

[skyheld]

how do we trust our happiness? how do we go on if we don’t know if it will be taken away? // for ameridan ;u;

BEYOND THE STORM | @mystiic

He is quiet pondering her question, not because he does not know the answer but because he does not know if it should be said. Long, slender fingers intertwine and pull away in a small, restless dance; the rest of his body is still, betraying little. His expression remains neutral --- or as neutral as it ever gets, weighed down by weariness and the deep lines of grief --- gaze fixed somewhere far ahead.

By nature, the former Inquisitor is truthful. The secrecy of the position he once held, of the politics and the Game, never sat comfortably with him. It was a mask he wore and only when needed. But some truths are better left unsaid. Some white lies are necessary. Maybe this is one.

Or maybe that isn't true at all --- maybe it is always better to face it, no matter how difficult to hear.

His hands go still, one nestle within the other in his lap. "The only thing we can trust is that it will be taken away, one way or the other. It does not last. Not continuously. It may come again, in a different shape..." Or it may not. It hasn't to him, but then, he has not really been looking. "All we can do, I think, is make the most of what we have while we have it, knowing it won't be forever."

[skyheld]

perhaps you and i are doomed to always be hurt. what we do with that hurt is our choice.  - ziphrane for ameridan uwu

BEYOND THE STORM | accepting | @fatesown

He tries so hard to stay positive. He holds on to the good memories and doesn't dwell on the bad ones, he tells himself he did what he thought was best, he focuses on what's good now, a ray of sunlight hitting the surface of a lake just right, children running across a village square laughing, the fact that this age has libraries with thousands of books and that trees still grow and cats still lie on warms stones sleeping, and sometimes he can feel it. He can feel the joy of living like a spark in his chest and he can smile with genuine mirth. Sometimes he can do that.

But most of the time it isn't enough. He tries so hard and it isn't enough. And Ziphrane's word sinks into his chest like a knife: maybe he's a fool to keep trying. Maybe he should accept this hurt, embrace it. Let it drown him.

He picks a dead leaf from a branch he passes and tears it thoughtfully into little pieces. More leaves crunch underneath their feet. He hates knowing that autumn won't be beautiful this year, that he won't have it in him to think it beautiful, that he will only see that things are dying. "What would you do with it? What can you do? If we are doomed to hurt I see no choice but to suffer it."

[skyheld]

" There are some things that do not die no matter how many blades we put into them. " + Ameridan, dnd/bg3. Campfire musings of a dotty old elf, clearly. ;P

BEYOND THE STORM | accepting | @winterfollows

"It would be so much easier if we could put a blade into anything that troubled us, wouldn't it? Grief. Self-doubt. Love, when it is unwanted." He can think of a thousand more things as he reaches for a stick, already burnt at the end, to stir the dwindling fire. They have been sitting here a long time. "And yet, imagine how many cuts it would take to carve all the grief out of such long lives as ours. Maybe it is better to be grieving but whole, than to have lost so much of ourselves."

A small smile. "Or you were talking about liches and I have embarrassed myself with philosophical nonsense."

[skyheld]

@accultant cont. from x

It is tempting to leave, admittedly. Vivienne would be furious and their mage allies probably offended, but truly, nothing they will be doing here cannot be done through a polite letter. Or an impolite one, if necessary. They are here so they're seen being here, that is the only reason he can think of. So it's tempting not just because of how unsettling it is for the both of them to be here; it's also that Ameridan dislikes the message this is sending. The Inquisitor (and the former Inquisitor) visiting the last standing circle, willing to ally with it --- people will read so much into that.

But backing out of what they've started is no option. The Inquisitor can't be seen being frightened by the presence of templars. They are holding together remarkably well under the circumstances --- he has noticed them staying close to him, the glances over their shoulder, but they are here, walking calmly through what must feel so much more like a nightmare for them than it does for him. He turns to give them an encouraging look, and that's when they drop their final comment.

Well. That's a terribly inappropriate thing to say. It brings the tiniest smile to his lips.

"I am sure we need not worry about that. Our allies would not allow any accidents to befall us." There's a hint of a warning there; it may be unwise to speak of accidents, even if it seems Vivienne is the only one close enough to listen. No one would truly dare to touch them, at least no one who isn't a fanatic for some ideal or other (they've had enough of those to be mindful of the possibility) but that doesn't mean they aren't being watched. That's probably the point, isn't it? To be seen, to be observed. It always is. Always has been.

Ameridan is fortunate in that he was born into status, and held lesser positions of command long before he shouldered that of the entire Inquisition. He got to navigate the Game before the outcome really mattered to anyone but himself, and he got to rise through the ranks (skipping some, because the emperor's friend doesn't have to go through all the hoops a lowly recruit does, but not all of them) instead of being put at the head of an army almost at once. He knew what it meant to be something more than yourself, a symbol instead of a person. He knew what it was like when every word spoken and every action taken was scrutinized, analyzed --- and used, by whoever could find a way to twist it to their benefit. It is familiar, like old armour worn through many battles.

It still chafes.

"But they really have no reason to keep us long", he says, as though to reassure both himself and Iago. "Should they try to, I don't know, invite us on a tour to the the dungeons we will simply have urgent business elsewhere. We are the Inquisition, we always have urgent business. Everywhere."