#ameridan:ic

[skyheld]

cw: tranquility, mild self-harm

It comes upon him gradually. Prayers upon prayers, whispered through cracking lips into the darkness of the cell: Fen’harel, Mythal enaste, O Maker hear my call, again and again until he doesn’t know where one begins and the other ends. With the prayers constantly in his mind he pushes down and down on the fear that this won’t work, the anger that he’s been doing this for so long with no result, the hysterical laughter bubbling up, the disgust, the grief, the frustration—pushes down and down until at last his mind is still like the surface of an underground lake touched by no wind, no current, no living thing.

Tranquil.

He remains on his knees in the cell for many breaths, the prayers a murmur in the back of his mind, waiting to see if the trance will break on its own or if it holds for now. His knees hurt, his joints and knuckles all locked up and aching. Hunger claws at his stomach. None of it really bothers him. He would prefer to not experience pain or hunger, but it doesn’t give him any particular grief. It just is. He just is. Tranquil.

His eyes peel open one lash at a time and he reaches out to tug at the thin rope hanging on the inside of the cell door. The sound of the bell ringing outside is the first sound he has heard beside his own breathing and the ragged sound of his prayers when he still had a voice to speak them with. It doesn’t break the trance. He still feels nothing, not even relief, when the sound breaks the silence. He feels nothing when feet approach the outside of the door and nothing when it’s pushed inwards. Lady-Seeker Threnaera’s face is familiar but he feels no warmth looking upon it.

“I am ready.” He mouths the words, he has no voice left.

She kneels in front of him, studies him. He’s not sure what she is looking for, but whatever it is, she finds it. With a curt nod she says, “Yes. You are ready for the Rite.”

-------

The water is cold and soothing to his throat but he feels no relief. He makes an involuntary noise when Knight-Commander helps him stand, muscles screaming as they leave the pose they’ve been in near constantly for the past month, but the pain causes no distress, it is just pain. When the Knight-Commander says Haron has asked to be present for the rite and that he has allowed it, despite it being against protocol, because of the unusual circumstances, he nods his understanding without feeling any gratitude or joy. He knows that he cares about Haron, but love is at the very bottom of the lake inside his mind, and the surface doesn’t stir because a stone shifts in the sand.

A month is nothing compared to the year most Seeker initiates go through before the Rite of Tranquility is attempted, but he doesn’t have time to be gone for a year. Mages equal to him in mental fortitude and skill have done the Vigil and not succeeded. They can reach this state of half tranquility—a trance, really, not easily broken but breakable—but they’ll never be entirely shut off from the Fade and thus they can never be free of it. None of them have come so far as to take the next step, the brand that makes tranquility permanent until broken by a spirit, the point that makes them immune to possession. Ameridan sees no reason to believe he will succeed where they failed. The difference is that he will take the next step anyway.

If the Vigil cannot work for a mage, do only the bare minimum for the Vigil, a month to enter that trance—then proceed with the Rite.

--------

The ritual chamber dug into the bedrock under the castle is small and poorly made, an uneven circle with moisture dripping down the walls and roots crawling through cracks in the ceiling. The rugs on the floor and walls do little do make it homelier and less to keep it warm. Ameridan shudders as he steps through the low door, but only from the cold. The trance holds.

As Haron and the Knight-Commander helps him into the center of the room, he looks at the table by the far wall. At the brand, glowing a faint blue.

If it succeeds, he will be immune to possession. He will be safe, in such a way as even the Chantry will have to accept. It is important enough to try, and dangerous enough that he would never allow anyone to try it but himself.

Lady-Seeker Threanera’s face is unreadable. “You are certain about this?”

“I am.”

“It will be no stain on your honour if you back out now.”

“I will not.”

She nods. “Knight-Commander, the brand, if you please.”

------

An instant of pain worse than any he has felt before. The brand burns into his forehead and sears through his skull and the blinding light of the Chantry sun is all he can see, all he can feel until something reaches into the jagged hole and seizes at his very being. Anger, fear, joy, grief— surprise and annoyance and curiosity and boredom—wants and wishes and hopes and dreams—he feels them all again, feels them so strongly it tears a ragged scream from his throat and his body seizes up like its trying to claw out of itself—he is arching his back, head pressing into the palms holding it still while the brand hisses at this forehead—another scream, ending on a pained gasp, and with it all of it is pulled out of him. That avalanche of emotions burned away with the sizzling of lyrium against his skin.

Silence. The blank surface of an underground lake.

------

He does not remember falling, but he is lying down now, face forward, head tilted to the side. There is a taste of blood in his mouth. He must have bit his tongue as his knees hit the stone floor. Haron is beside him, speaking, but Ameridan is too dazed to hear what he says. His voice is unnecessarily loud. He takes Ameridan’s face in his hands, feeling for injuries, then carefully turns him over so he lies on his back, and still he’s speaking.

“—can you hear me? Say something—Threnn, is this normal? What’s happening?”

Threnaera kneels beside him. Unlike Haron, she sounds calm. “Ameridan? Can you hear me? I want you to speak.”

“I can hear you”, Ameridan replies. His voice is a little stronger now, though still a whisper.

“Do you know your name?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Ameridan.”

“And mine?”

“Your name is Threnaera. You prefer to be called Threnn.”

“His voice”, Haron says, not looking at Ameridan; his eyes are wide. “It worked, didn’t it? He sounds…”

“Tranquil”, Threnn says. “We shall see. The brand certainly had some effect. Ameridan, do you think you can sit up? Haron and I will give you a hand, if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable.”

Ameridan thinks he’d be able to sit up. He’s no longer very dizzy, and he’s not comfortable on the floor. Haron takes his shoulders and half lifts him off the floor until he’s sitting, feeling the pain in his knees and elbows and chin and nothing more. Everything is clear and calm. He can see with such clarity.

The Knight-Commander is at his side now, too, smiling as he puts a hand on Ameridan’s shoulder, looking at his face without looking.

“Praise the Maker”, he says. “I think it worked. This is tranquility.”

“We will perform the usual checks”, Threanera says.

“Naturally. Inquisitor, you are bleeding. Did you bite your tongue?”

“Probably.”

“You may heal it.”

The Knight-Commander pauses after saying that as though waiting for a response, so Ameridan nods his understanding. A glance passes between Roderick and Threanera. The Knight-Commander turns back to him. “Heal it, Ameridan.”

He reaches up. It should be the work of a moment. His hands are at his chin, but there is no magic at his fingertips. He doesn’t feel surprise. “I cannot.”

“What do you mean you cannot?”

“I have no access to my magic.”

--------

The checks confirm the same thing. The state of tranquility is perfect, without gaps for spirits to find foothold. Then, they want to run other test, on what they call Ameridan’s theory, that he no longer has magic in this state. Ameridan knows he doesn’t, and tells them so. They want to run the test anyway. He does not refuse.

They apologize. He sees no reason why. One of the most effective gauges of magical activity is to check the pain and flinch responses.

Haron pleads with them. It is enough, they have done enough tests. They should proceed. “I don’t like to look at him this way, Knight-Commander.”

“He can hear you, you know”, the Knight-Commander says.

-------

The final part of the rite is the calling of the spirit of Faith to break the state of tranquility. The summoning takes a long time and he’s feeling the hunger in his belly, the lack of water, the aches new and old in his body. Pray, the Lady-Seeker urges, keep praying, your faith will draw it even in this state. He prays with his ragged whisper-voice, prayers upon prayers, Fen’harel, Dirthamen, Mythal enaste, O Maker here me call until a presence starts building at the front of his mind, where the brand was burnt into his skull, a pressure like a blinding light like heat through cracks in the bone. Vaguely he recognizes it—like an old friend half forgotten. It reaches out and the pressure mounts until he wants to scream from the pain.

It falls into the stillness of the underwater lake and shatters the surface into a thousand sharp splinters.

They breach it like the hands of the drowned finally reaching the surface. Fear, reaching up to claw at the first thing it can find. Anger, coming up next like a closing fist. Grief, howling its way into despair. Injustice, insult, betrayal, guilt. He throws his head back, gasping, reaching out for Faith but it is already leaving, its presence fading.

------

“Ameridan. Ameridan, please say something.”

He is lying on the floor again, on his back, staring into the cracked ceiling. His head is in Haron’s lap and when he tilts it back a little he can see Haron’s face, upside-down, and the love that he feels for him—the relief that he is there, the gratitude that he spoke up, the shame that he saw Ameridan like this—it wells up like a sob from his chest and he has to turn away. His chest is heaving, heart pounding and there is so much building on the edge of his consciousness. He tries to make his mind calm, but it roars like a stormy sea.

“Threnn”, Haron says, “tell me this is how it’s supposed to go.”

“Some initiates have strong reactions”, Threnaera says, kneeling beside them both. Her voice strikes a spark of anger. She could have listened to him when he told her his magic was gone. His magic— in a panic, a flash of sudden fear he seeks for the connection in his mind and this time he finds it, the Fade singing at the edge of his mind.

Relief, again. He wants to laugh. All is well. He did it—he did it.

Did he?

The Fade is still singing. Faith is gone. The spirit will fill you and become one with you, and there will be no room for another, Threnaera said. But he cannot feel its presence.

The shock—the disappointment—the fear rises and the falls, he falls, he falls in Haron’s lap into a pit so deep and dark he can’t see the edge. It did not work—it did not work—all that pain and—

“Ameridan—“

It did not work.

“Ameridan, please…”

His hands are pried away from his face, blood under the nails, half-moons stinging on his cheeks. He looks at the blood and wonders why he did that, and how could the pain inside him be so strong he didn’t feel the one on his body?

“Something is wrong”, he whispers. His voice is hoarser than ever from screaming and no one has given him water and it makes him so angry, it is so unjust, unfair, that no one has given him water and he wrenches his hands out of Haron’s grip and Threnaera pushes him back when he tries to sit up and she can’t do that, he’s done with her, he reaches for the Fade and lashes out with his mind, sending a blast for force that hits her square in the chest and throws her backwards into a wall with such force dust falls from the ceiling.

Then he, too, is knocked back, magic drawn out of him in a painful surge that leaves him gasping on the floor next to Haron. The Knight-Commander’s sword is out, but he isn’t pointing it at Ameridan. He’s staring down at him, confused and angry. “What in the world is the matter with you?”

“I do not know.” He draws himself up into a sitting position, shaking, holding his hands up in front of his face as if somehow the blood under his fingernails will start to make sense, as if there is some way to understand why he has lashed out in anger at his friend, as if his emotions will calm down if he just breathes. Threnaera sits up, rubbing the back of her head, and the Knight-Commander sheathes his sword and kneels at her side.

“Ameridan.” Haron is at his side again. “Tell me what happened.”

“Something is wrong with me.” He can still taste blood in his mouth. He can feel it running down his cheeks from the half-moon cuts his nails left. “I do not know, Haron. Something is broken.”

“It is just shock”, Haron says, taking him into his arms, but even as he falls against his chest Ameridan knows it is not shock. His mind is still intact. He can see the senselessness of these emotions. But he is no longer in control.

Fear rises in him. He balls his hands into fist to quench it, bites his bottom lip until it bursts between his teeth. He is the Inquisitor, he is needed. Drakon needs him, the Wardens need him, the Dales need him, the mages need him.

If he isn't in control of himself, then he can be of no help to them.

[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]

"Did I hear you correctly?" The heat of the fire crowds sound from the space around it, and he wonders if he mistook what Ameridan said. There is no judgment in his voice as he elaborates, "You called yourself Telana's wife."

"I did, yes." It was a spontaneous decision to slip it into a sentence, but he wasn't being careless. As honest as Ameridan is, there is a measure of care in everything he says, the stories he shares of himself, of the past. He is careful when speaking of spirits, of tranquility, of blood magic, because a thoughtless word could bring the new Inquisition's reputation in question. When it comes to more personal matters, some things he simply prefers to hold close to his heart. Maybe it's a leftover from when he had enemies who would use anything they could find to hurt him—which he still does, though they are fewer and not as powerful. Maybe it is just the way he is.

But as he sits with Solas by the watchfire at night, their companions sleeping around them, he's speaking of Telana and he says, "it was a good thing we married when we did; she would not have wanted an Inquisitor for a wife." He's not certain Solas will pick up on it, and he's fine either way. It is an invitation, he supposes, extended to one of the people close to him he thinks will understand him the most.

Being Telana's wife wasn't a given thing, even if marrying her was. At first they just said spouse. He didn't like the sound of it, but it was what they had. He liked calling Telana his wife and he liked the way her face lit up when he did, but he never had a reaction like that to when she said spouse, or partner, or any other variant. They were staying at an inn in the heart of the Daled one night, and he was thinking about how nice it had felt to walk up to the innkeeper and say "we need a room for the night, and my wife wants a bath" and then he realized he had the answer right there.

He turned his head towards Telana and pressed a kiss to her forehead, where she had a small scar from a spellgone awry when she was young. "What would you say if I said I am your wife?"

"Of course you are", she said, scrunching her brow the way he found so endearing, "we're—oh, wife." She smiled when she caught herself, then more softly when she understood. "I suppose I would say, 'this is my wife Ameridan, who I love beyond everything.'"

He drew her head down and kissed her again so she couldn't see the way he blushed. "I like that."

"I would say, 'I waited years for him to come back to the Dales and be my wife, and I would wait for eternity, but I don't have to because he already is my wife.'"

"Telana..."

"I would say", she propped herself up on an elbow, so she was looking down and he couldn't escape her gaze, "'there, look at my wife, he's the most beautiful person I know.'"

"You wouldn't."

"My wife is a fool who thinks I'm lying, but I love him anyway."

He pulled her down on top of him, and flipped them over, and the rest wasn't said in words.

—

He's drawn back to the present when a log bursts in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and finds himself smiling at the memory.

"Spouse felt too formal", he says. "Husband.... it would have been what people expected, so then they'd have drawn conclusions, you know? And I've never felt like a husband. Wife felt right. I do not know if that makes sense to anyone but me."

[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]

"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]

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]

If there was some way to identify the trees, would Ameridan visit his own? Would he feel any type of way about it? What about Telana’s?

unprompted | always accepting | @keepslore

Some of the trees still have signs. Not the neat metal plaques with fine inscriptions made in his time, those must all have been lost or ripped away, but wooden signs easily overlooked (and thus less likely to be torn down by passing humans) made by such tools he imagines the dalish carry on their aravels. They bear the name of the knight the tree was planted for: Sulan, Mathalin, Ralaferin, Elnora.

His heart skips a beat when he sees the name Tanaleth. He remembers her from his youth, the ends of her grey hair perpetually singed, skin thick and textured with a thousand little burns from the sparks flying in her forge. Her tree must have been planted before he was born. Now it reaches towards the heavens like the others. It is dizzying to look up into the branches lit by the setting sun and know how slowly they've grown to that point, to see the years between this time and his own.

The sapling is small, but cumbersome to carry from the back of the cart, especially as he has to hold it out from his body to avoid the thin branches getting into his face. "Mages", one of his friends teases in passing when Ameridan stops to shift his grip to where the sapling can rest in the crook of his arm, the stem resting on his shoulder. "Can barely carry a tree." Ameridan laughs. He laughs at most things; the image of them, supposed to be stern, solemn knights, carrying little trees into the grove like a train of gardeners in extremely protective gear. He laughs at Da'harel leaping around his feet and the way one of the elder knights try to send him stern glances every time he calls the wolf's name, but always ends up smiling.

He's not looking. Not in particular. There are so many trees that don't have signs, so many that likely were never planted for any specific person but grew from a seed that fell from the others and thrived in the absence of gardeners. So many others must have fallen throughout the years. The Marches—the Graves now—have grown into a deep forest, and what used to be mostly young trees have grown into giants. If he walked here often, if he'd spent much time here, maybe he'd have been able to navigate with those few signs and the landmarks that haven't changed, the rocks which have only sunk deeper into the moss and the stream which has only slightly changed course. But he can't, and he's glad for it.

Some of the newly-made knights take a long time choosing the spot for their tree, agonizing over the scenery, looking at the metal plaques set on the trees around them, hoping to be placed among the best. It doesn't seem to matter so much to Ameridan. The gardeners said every tree would be watered and the soil is good all around the grove, so all they need to care about is placing the saplings a good distance apart, and not in stupid places like under rocks. Someone, naturally, has found a spot underneath a rock, and is currently arguing with one of the gardeners about it. Ameridan finds an empty spot with soft grass and a stream not too far away, sets the sapling down and starts to dig. No sooner has he planted his hands in the soil than he's knocked head over heels by Da'harel, who gives his head a friendly lick before he starts digging vigorouosly. He lies on his back in the sun, laughing.

Dhavi doesn't say anything about the sun moving towards the horizon as they walk through the Emerald Marches. She waits, patiently, when he kneels to brush moss and dead leaves from the signs, making the names visible. She doesn't ask, but takes his hand when they walk to the next one, her fingers tight around his.

"That hole is going to be so much bigger than it needs to be." "Then I'll fill it in." He shades his eyes against the sun and looks up at the knight initiate standing over him. Telana, that was her name. They never met before the initiation ceremony and he is so curious to know more of her, but she is shy, and he doesn't want to scare her off by bombarding her with questions. It pleases him that she has sought him out, that she feels comfortable enough to tease him. "Are you already done?" "Yes." "Where's your spot?" "Over there." She points. She's chosen a spot well away from most others, close to a larger cliff jutting out of the forest floor. "You wanted it to be all the way over there? There's no one else around you." She shrugs, but he sees the way her hand flicks out, reaching for her wolf companion the way she does when she needs comfort. "I didn't know who to put it with. I don't know anyone else here." Ameridan sits up, and looks over to where Da'harel is digging. "You were right." He makes a face. "That hole is way too big. I will have to find a different spot. Telana, may I..." She looks like she's about to protest. He's not subtle, he knows he's not subtle. Then her gaze softens, and he sees her smile. "Yes, you may."

He stops.

The paved road slashes through the forest unnaturally. The paths that were here once were made to flow with the landscape, not to cut through it in as straight a line as possible. Ahead are the walls of Chateau d'Onterre, its gilt spikes glowing in the setting sun. Most of the trees have been cut down in wide swathe around them so no one can sneak up on the walls in their cover. A few have been left standing as though to pretend to be natural scenery.

Time has worn away the top of the cliff, but the shape is still the same. A single tree still stands between it and the castle wall, proud and straight, its crown of leaves shading a corner of the garden where a cracked stone bench stands by a bed of vines and weeds. It has no sign. He cannot remember which one it is, his or Telana's. Maybe that is for the best.

"Da'harel, please do not eat the tree. This is a serious matter." "He is never going to take things seriously if you do not", Telana chides him cheerfully as she helps him pack the dirt around the small sapling, Da'harel leaping around them, snapping his jaws at the leaves when they flutter with their movements. Her own Nir'enehn sits a respectful distance away, blinking slowly in the sun. "Good. I hate to take things seriously", Ameridan replies, only half in joke. But when they both stand back to admire their work, the sapling reaching to their shoulders but standing straight and secure enough to earn the gardener's approval, he feels his own back straighten and his shoulders fall. This grove of saplings is but the beginning, the elder knights say. One day it will be an ancient forest, vast and tall, and it will remind all who see it that though the elven nation may have begun with nothing but a seed of hope, there was enough strength in that seed to grow into an nation proud and free and peaceful. It is easy to laugh at them for the grandeur of their words, but he is proud to be part of it.

"This was it", he says, softly, leading Dhavi from the paved road into the shade of the trees. "This was... one of ours. Mine or Telana's. I am not sure."

He puts a hand out to touch the bark. Again, there is that dizzying realization of how much time has passed. He touched this tree when it was a sapling. When it reached his shoulder and was as thin as his thigh. When this bark was just a thin, pale layer. It makes him feel a strange sort of homesickness, like looking out to sea yearning for a land well beyond the horizon, seeing not home, but the distance to it.

Dhavi waits, patient, while he breathes around his loss. When at last he takes his hand from the tree and turns back to her, she holds her hand out again; he takes it.

He feels the strength in that hand, squeezing back, and thinks of the arcane sword she carries. It is strange how things have come full circle with her. How Orlais tried to make them into the savages they always thought them of, but in their hour of need raised Dhavi up above most of them. Now an elf leads the Inquisition again, now she attends balls with empresses.

He reaches up with his free hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You would have made a good Emerald Knight", he says. "One of the best, up there with Mathalin himself. I know our people no longer consider it the blessing it once was..." He looks to the side, to where a great wolf statue towers over the Marches. "But I think Fen'harel would have been proud to walk at your side."

[skyheld]

from @weptduty // he has been ... grumpy, lately. but surely that is no sign of fault. the world is in chaos, more chaos than they had been prepared for. and his best friend is trapped in the fade. and he does not get to spend as much time with ameridan as he would like to.

"i do not like them," they say, succinct. "i know that you and dhavi'fen have formed a positive opinion of rook, but—" they don't want to say something terribly unkind, especially because ameridan has become attached to the young warden. so instead they breathe out, frustrated.

unprompted | always accepting | @weptduty

They are not fighting. This is no argument, just a disagreement to talk through, and Abelas has good reasons to be both distrustful and moody. Ameridan cannot fault him and he isn't concerned. But it comes on top of so much else. The Evanuris—it was difficult enough to come to terms with the truth of them, but to see it and confront it, to fight what he once worshiped, that is a different matter. He never expected that. He never knew it was a possibility. And then to do that with Hakkon in his head, mocking that pain—and to do so much of it away from Abelas as the duties they've taken upon themselves keep them apart...

He wishes he could just for a moment curl up somewhere with them and shut out the world. Hear nothing, feel nothing but the beating of their heart against the palm of his hand. Make his mind a blank sheet for them to whisper nonsense about how he's done no wrong. Believe it, just for that moment. But there is no time for that, and he finds that he cannot even reach for Abelas' hand. They are not fighting, this is no argument, but he is too tired even for a disagreement.

He sits still, hands resting in his laps, close but not close enough, and tries to keep his expression neutral while he speaks. "You would like Casadh if you met them under any other circumstances. It is not ideal, I know—their part in what happened. But they did not now it would happen, they could not know—they thought they were saving the world from disaster, as they had every reason to believe. It is what Solas told Dhavi, what Varric knew."

He regrets the last words immediately. They are true, but putting the blame on Solas isn't going to make Abelas more receptive to Casadh. He thinks for a moment, choosing the next words with more care. "You do not have to like them. You truly do not. Just... trust me when I say that while their goals may not fully align with yours, they will be an important ally against our enemies, and they may hold the key to freeing Solas too. We need them. They need us. An alliance does not need to be built on more than that as long as both parties stay true to it, and they will—Casadh will. They are..."

He looks up, eyes wide and vulnerable as they meet Abelas', voice going soft. "They are so very much like me. They will let this break them if that is what it takes. I cannot let that happen."

[skyheld]

(from @weptduty) it is frustrating, sometimes, to not feel adequately up to the task of refuting ameridan when he insists that it would have been better had the two of them not formed an attachment. that, somehow, abelas' existence would be more peaceful had they not opened their heart to ameridan, had not chosen to love him.

they hold him in their arms, his back against their chest. abelas wishes that they could look him in the eye, but they do not wish to cause him discomfort. and this posture is warm. safe. 

"you have told me that despite the pain of loss, you would not wish to have not loved your telana. your orinna."abelas noses at ameridan's hair, presses a soft kiss to the skin just behind his ear. "can you understand that i feel the same way for you? that i would not wish to have never had the chance to hold you like this, even if our time together is finite?" 

unprompted | always accepting

Ameridan tries not to voice his doubts too often. Not in such an obvious way. He wants Abelas to know they can leave, he needs them to know he's sorry, but he has to respect their choice to stay with him because it is their choice to make. And he knows, of course he knows that if he says something all he'll accomplish is make them scramble to reassure him, and he doesn't want to do that, he doesn't want them to have to do that.

But Abelas says, don't hide from me, vhenan, and Ameridan doesn't want to do that either, not when they ask him not to.

"I just think.... sometimes I think it would have been better for you if you had never met me." Often, not sometimes, but Abelas does not need to know the sleepless nights at their side when he wonders if he should be gone my morning. "I... am sorry I allowed you to love me. When I knew it would not last for very long."

It is easier to speak with his back to them, so in that way they do let him hide a little bit. Though he wishes he could put his arms around them as their arms are around him, he doesn't wish to look them in the eye now.

you have told me that despite the pain of loss, you would not wish to have not loved your telana. your orinna.

His lips part as Abelas presses a kiss to the spot behind his ear, a frown appearing between his brows. "No, but..."

can you understand that i feel the same way for you? that i would not wish to have never had the chance to hold you like this, even if our time together is finite?

"...oh." He goes still, a breath held as he processes those words. Can you understand that I feel the same way for you? No, and—yes, because while he does not deserve it he can't deny that Abelas feels that way for him, he can't doubt them like that. Yes because he feels the same, yes because if the roles were reversed he would be doing what Abelas is doing now and hold on, hold on as tight as he could—yes because that it what it means to love and this is love and they both know what it means to love and lose.

He shifts, a small wiggle that makes Abelas loosen their hold (because of course they would, they strive so hard to accommodate him, twisting themselves twice over if they think they have to—) and he turns around within the circle their arms make until he's facing them. He doesn't look at them, buries his face against their chest instead, but his arms wrap around them. He holds on as their grip tightens again around his shaking shoulders.

Is it relief, these sobs wracking him, that he tries to muffle against Abelas' chest? It doesn't feel like relief, not quite. It feels like release. Not like finding safe footing after being cast out to sea, but like breaching the surface of the water, taking a breath, and seeing a shoreline.

"Yes", he says, when he can speak again. He reaches up, touches their cheek until their head tilts down so he can meet their gaze. "I can understand that. Remind me when I forget."

[skyheld]

@keepslore hi lou :)

Dareth'vhen'shiral. Safe journey home.

He was grateful when his parents gifted him the staff bearing that name—how could he not be, they were his parents and he loved them—but he sighed a little inwardly when he saw the rune carved into its handle. Safe journey home. It was such a... parent-y thing to do. He'd tried to tell them there was no reason for them to sit at home and worry until he came back from whatever business with the knights or the Inquisition or Drakon had taken him away. He shouldn't have to feel guilty for doing what he felt he had to do, for living the life he wanted. But it wasn't a good-luck-charm, that name, it was a plea.

Dareth'vhen'shiral. Please, come home safe.

Now he knows how they felt. Back home on their small estate outside Halamshiral, waiting for a courier to deliver a letter, dreading the day the message would begin with 'it is with our deepest condolences..." He sees now, he sees with perfect clarity, why they had to wait, why they had to worry, why they couldn't let him go. The healers have shut the door on everyone and he understands that too, he does, but he is—it is—how can they expect him to stand in the corridor outside where her blood has dripped onto the floor without wanting to scream? What do they expect him to do if not going through the past few hours—the way her hand almost ruptured with out-of-control-magic, the way she tried but couldn't hide the agony of it from him, the way she was gone and he wasn't there for her, the way she returned—the way she returned and collapsed, her hand—what was left of it—what was left...

Mother—mamae, why is the fence still broken? What do you mean it's because I was in Orlais? Why couldn't you have had it repaired while I was gone?

Papae, dry your tears. I cannot stay here doing nothing if the Blight is truly coming again. I have to go. Surely you understand that.

Dareth'vhen'shiral. I am sorry, I didn't understand what it means to be a parent. I understood the love. I didn't understand the pain. I am sorry I hurt you.

She needs to sleep, they say. She's weakened, she's in shock, she'd been delirious. The room is dark and the fire built up so high even Ameridan thinks it is too hot, but she needs warmth, they say, her body is too weak to keep its own temperature. He sits beside her bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the movement of the hand resting on top of it. The right hand. The one she has left. He makes himself look at the stump of the other, the abrupt end of her arm under the swathe of bandages.

"Dhavi, I do not know if you can hear me." His voice is soft in the half-dark, but it doesn't need to be loud. If she's awake, she will hear it in her heart. "And I do not know what to say, where to begin. I do not know..." if I have any right to speak. If I should even be here at your side now when I was not there then. "...but I am so sorry. I am so sorry I wasn't there, but I am here now. I will be here when you wake up. When you wake up. Dhavi, you have to wake up." His voice breaks, but he forces it back under control. She needs his strength, not his guilt. "I will be here for you, al—" No, not always. He knows that already, he can feel it—not always.

His hand closes around her limp fingers. How long until it loses its strength? How long until she can tell, until she understands? This is what it means, to be a parent, to be a child. It is the knowledge at the heart of that relationship: that it will end.

Dareth'vhen'shiral. Because you will not always have a home with me, and you will not know what that means until it is too late.

"Dhavihal", he says, leaning forward, until he can kiss the knuckles of her hand. "Call you daughter has been the greatest honour of my life. You will come back to me.

Please, come back to me."

Dareth'vhen'shiral. Because to me, nowhere is truly home without you.

[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]

from @aestuum // casadh shuffles into ameridan's room and pauses, looking blankly at the long hall with its hangings, its benches, its furs. absently they note new carvings on the wooden supports, another embellishment by hakkon no doubt.

they don't announce themself, but walk over to where ameridan sits, bent over his notebook. they don't remind him that it will hurt his eyes to do that here, where there is little natural light. they don't even take a seat next to him.

casadh stops, heartsore from their argument with dhavi yesterday and the way their emotions seem fixated on trampling them into the ground. they're tired. they don't want to talk. but being alone feels bad, too.

they sit on the ground next to his chair and lean against it, pulling their knees up to their chest, wrapping their arms tightly around their legs, and tucking their head into the dark, little hollow of their body.

unprompted | accepting | @aestuum, also @keepslore, children pls stop fighting don't you know you're siblings

Whatever Hakkon has done to the room is not subtle anymore, but there is a warmth and familiarity to the space which makes it comfortable. It reminds him of the smaller longhouses of those old-fashioned ciriane lords Drakon's empire had so little room for, the ones who'd drink from the skull of an ancestor's enemy and still prayed to their old gods in the same breath as the Maker. It unnerves some of the others staying at the LIghthouse, which frankly he does not mind. They are too comfortable up here in the north, thinking themselves the standard to which everything else is measured.

He is too focused on a sketch to look up as the door opens, though the sudden bright light makes it impossible not to notice. It is dark in here and he has to strain his eyes to draw, but he saw something yesterday and he needs to capture it before he forgets. In spite of the distraction, he does notice Casadh's silence, the slow shuffling steps towards him.

"Casadh? Are you—" His heart tightens with concern when they simply flop down on the floor beside him, still in complete silence. Oh, that is no good. For a moment he is frozen, unsure what he should do. They're not talking, they may not want to talk. That is fine. If all they want is company, to sit here in silence while he draws, he will give them that. But he needs to know that he's not ignoring anything.

He reaches out, places a hand on their shoulder, holding it firmly. "I am here, Casadh." A moment passes, and his hand remains. "Would you speak of what troubles you?"

[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]

( 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]

a kiss to wake your lover up in the morning . - from abelas for ameridan

kisses more kisses | accepting | @weptduty

It is the first time in a long while that he wakes up knowing exactly where he is. And with whom.

Waking up is slow, usually. A confusing crawl through memories out of order. He is at home in the Dales and when he reaches out Telana or Orinna should— no. They aren't here, his hand grasps for nothing. He is with the Inquisition, then, one of their many small keeps scattered throughout the ciriane lands. He tries to remember which one and his half-asleep mind scrapes the bottom and returns: the Inquisition is no longer, you signed the Nevarran Accord. Then why is he not in the Dales? He remembers Drakon in Nevarra City, arguing for the Circles; he remembers his anger towards Drakon like a fresh wound; he remembers a message summoning him to Val Royeaux and thinking I am not going, I am not—

He remembers standing in the imperial chamber one last time, Drakon lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles like a penitent seeking forgiveness from a Chantry Mother before asking him this one last favour, to kill the god-dragon Hakkon. From there there is no stopping the landslide of memory, he is already remembering, he already knows, but he has to go through it anyway, he has to lose everything again—he is waking like he did in the basin, only slower, and all alone.

Which is good, in a way. He maintained his composure then, he doesn't do that every morning. He wouldn't want everyone to see what it's like when he doesn't.

But the sun hits his eyelids this morning, pulls him out of sleep and the first thing he knows is Abelas' breaths, rising to meet his own. He's lying on top of them, one hand tangled into their soft black hair, the other at their shoulder. His neck is aching from being tucked into the crook of theirs all night, unmoving. This is no problem. He'll wake with a crick in his neck every morning if it meant he could sleep like this. Wake like this.

It hasn't ceased to hurt. Sorrow is lodged in his heart and his bones. But a morning when the first thing he feels is love, not loss— that is something to be celebrated.

He folds an arm over Abelas' collarbone and lifts his head a little, gently, careful not to push hard and poke them with his elbow. They, too, look at peace. Their breaths are even, soft lips slightly parted, a strand of hair fallen across their forehead to rest beside his nose. When the sun nears their eyelids, Ameridan moves his other hand, cupping it over their browbone to give them shade.

"I know you are awake, vhenan." Still shading their eyes, he leans down to press his lips to the side of their jaw, then the corner of his mouth, until it twitches into a smile. "Good morning."

[skyheld]

A gentle kiss over a freshly placed bandage - for ameridan from casadh

kisses more kisses | accepting | @aestuum

"You should have asked me in the first place", Ameridan says gently, "instead of trying to do it on your own. This is so much easier for someone else to do. Tight enough?"

Casadh nods, head down to watch closely as the bandage is wound around their hand a few more times. Fortunately no sewing needs to be done, or Ameridan would be out of his depth. Cleaning, applying a salve to stave off infection, then bandaging the red and weeping burn in the middle of Casadh's palm-those things he can do without worrying he might do it wrong, especially with Casadh watching.

Mostly, he worries about causing them pain. He wants to ask what possessed them to try to put a flame out with their bare hand when any clothed part of their body would have sufficed. He wants to say that, for the record, Casadh is far more important than Ameridan is, so it they have to take a second longer to help him in order to help him safely, they should. A burn to the side of the hip is nothing compared to a burn to the palm.

He doesn't say it, because he doesn't like wasting words. As he tucks the bandage in securely, he lifts Casadh's palm to his lips and gives it a soft kiss, sending a small burst of healing magic into the tissue to encourage regrowth.

"I know you are too much like me to listen", he says. "You are so young. Do not break your body down thoughtlessly. Let it heal."

So much for not wasting words, Hakkon says.

"They will be fine", Ameridan says when Casadh is out of earshot.

For now, the god of war replies. So stop fretting. You have done what you can.

They both know it isn't enough.