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spicycreativity · 3 years ago

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Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/12 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus content. This chapter only: alcohol use Characters: All Pairings: Moceit, background Prinxiety, background Intrulogical (yes I played a little game of "pair the spares") Additional Tags: Hey it's the fic I published on Anon because I was embarrassed of how utterly pretentious it is!, post-PoF, sickfic, dirty poetry, humor interspersed with philosophy and Janus-typical pontification, this is VERY speculative and will get Jossed in the future lmao Summary: After claiming his place in the Light and coming face-to-face with the consequences of his actions, Janus finds himself unwillingly re-calibrating his moral compass. For selfish reasons, of course. But one apology snowballs into several, and soon he's running around the Mindscape with a low-grade fever and a guilty conscience as he desperately tries to regain some sense of self. Oh, and he's definitely not falling in love with Patton, so don't even bring it up. One Last Note: I wrote this in an ADHD fugue state. It is HEAVILY influenced by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but there are also references to poetry and various other works of literature. I also deliberately used symbols, themes, and motifs. Most of them are pretty in your face except for the recurring ouroboros, which is used as a symbol of rebirth. ...Told you it was pretentious.

When you wake up to the promise of your dream world comin' true With one less friend to call on, was it someone that I knew? Away you will go sailing in a race among the ruins If you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon

Janus appeared in the Dark side of the Mindscape, elation swelling in his chest. Even the ringing headache and bitter taste in his mouth couldn't hollow the unfamiliar triumph that warmed him to the core. Caught up in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to register the sight before him: Remus, upside-down on the couch, his brow furrowed and face an alarming shade of purple.

For a moment, Janus stood stock-still as he tried to get his bearings. He must have been more flustered than he'd realized-- He'd been aiming for his bedroom.

But here he was, staring down at Remus, who was definitely going to burst a blood vessel (or several) if he didn't flip over soon.

"That's not horrifying at all," Janus said, thinking it would be rude to dismiss Remus, especially since he had probably been eavesdropping. He had likely heard everything. Everything. Even the ugly parts.

"Do you remember when Thomas read that post about Nutty Putty Cave?" Remus asked in a strained, strangled voice. "That spelunker who died because he got stuck upside-down?"

"No," Janus said, before realizing his mistake. "Yes." He definitely wanted Remus to remind him of the gory details.

"That's what I thought," Remus said with a wicked grin.

Janus sighed through his nose. Remus, though he thrived on attention, seemed content enough to continue his experiment by himself. On the other hand, if Janus didn't bring up a certain insult he'd levied at Roman, Remus most certainly would, and at a time where it would cause the most upset and turmoil. Better for Janus to deal with it now, even if he would have to fight the tension pulling his muscles taut. He wanted to dance. He wanted to scream.

Hesitation proved to be Janus' downfall, and by the time he'd opened his mouth to broach the subject at hand, Remus had beaten him to the blow. "You're not usually this quiet, Oralboros. Snake got your tongue?"

Janus, again, sighed. Rather than answer, he doffed his hat, set it on the coffee table, and clumsily arranged himself upside-down next to Remus. The change in position immediately made his head throb. He ignored it. "I definitely meant it when I called you 'evil'."

Remus' eyes widened in faux-shock. "You called me evil ?" he shrieked, voice ringing out high and clear. "Me? How dare you. I'm an angel!"

At least Remus was taking it well. "Sarcasm is my thing," Janus said, realizing that he might make it out of this without having to properly apologize.

For some reason, Patton's face flashed into his mind, and a subsequent twinge of guilt made his tongue go sour. Fine. If there was ever a time to start telling uncomfortable truths… "But I am sorry I said that."

"Wow!" Remus laughed. "You must be upset." A red stain began to spill across his left eye. "You don't apologize."

"It’s not like I care about your feelings or anything." Janus would have liked to have drawn himself up to his full height, but it was impossible to do while upside-down. "As much as I'm enjoying watching your blood vessels slowly burst, would you please turn over before you hurt yourself? I've suffered enough psychological trauma for today."

"Oh, fine." Remus kicked his legs and landed neatly on his toes like a gymnast.

Janus, by contrast, got his arms tangled in his capelet and nearly folded himself in half before he found his balance again. "I meant to do that," he said, turning to grab his hat so Remus wouldn't see the blush on his face.

The sudden sensation of blood draining from his head made the room whirl. He steadied himself against Remus' shoulder until it slowed somewhat, but nothing could dampen the horrible ringing in his ears.

"Well," he said, adjusting his shirt. The sudden appearance of his conscience had taken the wind out of his sails more than he cared to admit, and all thoughts of dancing bled out of him along with a good deal of energy. "I'm not going to go scream into my pillows until I tire myself out."

"Being an agent of chaos is hard work," Remus said with a sage nod, "but that doesn't sound very relaxing, Mr Self Care."

"It's a form of meditation, if you think about it," Janus said.

Remus made a face. "You know I don't do that."

"...Meditate?"

"No, think."

"Ah. Well." Janus made only a token attempt to hide his fond smile. "Good night, Remus. Please stay up late and injure yourself."

"Can do, Snakeypoo.”

Janus turned. It was close enough, he might as well walk to his bedroom, especially considering how well his last attempt at appearing in it had gone.

The reason why that had been so difficult became apparent in mere moments. Janus froze in the hall and dropped to his knees at the giddy wave of horror and delight that made him too light-headed to stand.

He knelt in front of the empty stretch of wall where his door had been previously. Heat flooded his face.

"Jay?" The rounded toes of Remus' boots appeared in his line of sight. Janus zeroed in on them, the mud splatters and stains on the soft leather. "You have an aneurysm or what?"

Janus, unable to speak, motioned for Remus to turn around. He couldn't deal with this right now.

"Ohhh," said Remus. "Well. Good luck with that ." He hauled Janus to his feet. "So you're a boner fide good guy now, huh?"

Janus stared over Remus' shoulder at the empty stretch of wall where his door used to be. "That depends entirely on who you ask."

Remus shrugged and rose up on his toes. "You can scream into my pillows instead, if you want."

"As tempting as that is…" Janus trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the wall. It was tempting, despite the constant chaos in Remus' room. But he'd have to face the Light side sooner or later. It wasn't like he could move his room back, not without psychologically damaging Thomas and undoing all the work he'd done. "I'm really looking forward to getting insulted some more."

"Alright," Remus said with a shrug. "Try not to throw me under the bus this time, alright? Unless it's a real bus…" His gaze became dreamy, unfocused. "And it's doing 50 in a school zone and there's a whole pack of screaming kids in the crosswalk--"

"Goodbye, Remus." Janus turned and left.

The barrier between the "dark" and the "light" sides of Thomas' brain had been a joint venture. It would have been there in some form no matter what, but it was Janus and Roman (with Patton's tacit blessing) who had worked to put up something more physical between them.

Janus ducked under the red curtain, trepidation percolating in his stomach, but what he found on the other side was anticlimactic to say the least: It was dead silent on this side of the barrier.

Janus wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew by now that the so-called "Lights" had issues working out their interpersonal issues, and this most recent conflict wasn't the kind of thing you just got over. It did follow that they would all go off to lick their wounds for a time.

Hesitantly, toe-to-heel, Janus crept down the hall. It felt for all the world like he was sneaking around a vast hotel, right down to needlessly ornate design on the plush carpeting. That was probably Roman's doing.

Janus focused, trying to call the Mindscape to work for him. He wanted to go to his room.

The Mindscape listened. Janus turned a corner and found a row of doors stretching down yet another brightly-lit corridor. His eye was immediately drawn, not to the brilliant yellow of his own door, but to the figure huddled in front of it: Patton sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on his knees.

"Looking for someone?" Janus asked, slightly louder than necessary.

Patton jerked his head up. "Oh! Janus!" He plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "You sure pop star-tled me."

Scaring Patton hadn't brought Janus nearly the level of schadenfreude he'd thought it would. He crossed his arms over his chest, extending a third to help Patton up. "Take your time getting to the point.”

"Oh." Patton accepted Janus' proffered hand and got to his feet. Warmth spilled from him, permeating the fabric of Janus' glove and gently heating his palm. "Well, it's just…" He took a deep breath. "I noticed your door and I thought-- Well, I wanted to make you feel welcome!"

A high-pitched tone resonated in Janus' skull. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the mounting pressure-pain-exhaustion in his temples. "Aren't you just a saint ." Patton's face fell. Janus fought the urge to swear aloud. He usually had a better handle on himself, and he knew better than to alienate potential allies. "I mean, thank you, Patton. Truly. I appreciate it." Patton had proven himself useful. Janus should at least cultivate that relationship, even if it meant a little discomfort.

"Have you eaten?" Patton asked. "It's a little late, but I could make something if you wanted." He paused. "Maybe we could play cards or something." Another pause. "O-only if you want to, I mean."

Janus let his face remain impassive even as he internally cringed at the idea of staying awake for even another second. It would be so easy to brush Patton off with a few honeyed words and disappear beyond the barrier of his door. But Patton had stood up for him today, or at least he'd tried to. Janus sighed. Quid pro quo. "That sounds like an utter waste of time."

"Are you… I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell when you're…"

"Yes, Patton. That sounds lovely."

Patton actually hopped in place, an adorable little jig that absolutely didn't send a confusing little shockwave of fondness through Janus' ribcage. "Really?"

"Really," Janus lied.

He followed Patton down the hall into the living room, which opened into the dining room and the kitchen. Janus studied his surroundings, trying to take in as much as his exhausted faculties would allow. Even in the absence of other Sides, the living room felt warm and welcoming. All the lights were on, and they bathed everything in gentle golden light .

"You're awfully quiet," Patton said.

Janus shook himself. "I was just getting my bearings."

"I guess you've never really been over here, huh?" Pattton opened the refrigerator. Was he actually going to cook , instead of just manifesting something? How quaint. "Do you like grilled cheese?"

It had been a long, confusing day. Doublespeak came to Janus as naturally as breathing, but he was obviously running circles around Patton even when he wasn't trying to. "Yes," he said, hoping to telegraph his sincerity by not emoting at all.

It seemed to work. Patton studied him for a moment before turning back to the fridge. "Then that's what I'll make."

Janus took advantage of this temporary distraction to clamber onto one of the barstools. The slick velvet of his capelet tended to disagree with surfaces like wood and vinyl, and he needed a moment to arrange things so he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.

He watched Patton work in the kitchen, a detached coolness washing out the scene. Quid pro quo, he reminded himself when he felt his facade begin to slip. He owed Patton this.

He certainly didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt, that he had been the one to orchestrate this breakdown. Yes, the Light Sides had loaded the gun, but in the end it was Janus who had pulled the trigger.

He shook his head and thought about playing cards, good Bicycle playing cards with holes punched through them like they'd come from a casino. "What should we play?" he asked, pulling the deck from his breast pocket.

Patton looked up from the stovetop, his eyes flicking to the cards in Janus' hand. "Do you know Kings in the Corners?"

"Not personally, no."

Patton laughed, but there was something cold about it. "It's really simple," he said. "I'll show you how to play and you can tell me if you like it."

It was nearly impossible to cheat at Kings in the Corners. Janus doubted this had been a calculated measure on Patton's part, doubted he had the capacity for that kind of foresight, but he respected it just the same.

They played in funereal silence, staring each other down across the light wood of the dining room table. Janus, ill-inclined to take off his gloves, utilized a napkin to keep from staining them with melted butter from the grilled cheese Patton had made. Neither one of them smiled. Neither one of them spoke.

Janus pulled a card from the deck to indicate the end of his turn and glanced up at Patton. His face was somber, almost sorrowful, and it clashed against the gentle domesticity of the dining room, with its floral table runner and mismatched placemats.

Janus started to laugh.

"What is it?" Patton asked, cheeks darkening. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Janus swallowed down another peal of laughter and cleared his throat, unable to wholly restrain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You look like I’m holding you here at gunpoint." It was somewhat ironic, considering Janus was the one who felt like he couldn't leave.

"What?" Patton smiled, but it was more akin to an offering than an expression of joy.

"It’s not really funny. " Janus wasn’t quite sure how to make Patton understand.

Patton sat back with a sigh, placing his cards facedown on the table. "But I guess it is pretty funny, huh? In a really sad way."

Janus almost asked what was sad about it before realizing that Patton probably missed his friends. Instead he said, "Yes" and stifled a yawn behind his free hand.

"I'll make coffee!" Patton leapt to his feet and was off to the kitchen before Janus could so much as blink.

The newfound solitude made it that much harder for Janus to ignore his headache, which had only worsened in the hour or so he'd been playing cards with Patton. Despite the nonchalant facade he'd tried so hard to project, he'd been holding himself tense.

Maybe the night (or morning, at this point) would be easier to tolerate if he had, say, a bit of gold rum.

The corner of a flask dug into Janus' hip. He smiled.

"Just how late are you planning on staying up?" he asked Patton when the latter returned holding two mismatched mugs.

"Oh, I don't know," Patton said. Lied. He set a mug down in front of Janus and then resumed his seat, the cards forgotten by his elbow. "I'm… A little scared of what tomorrow will be like."

Janus eased the flask out of his pocket. "Rum?"

"Oh, um," Patton said, staring at the flask. "I don't know…"

Janus raised an eyebrow, working something out. He landed on it a millisecond later: Patton wanted to be convinced. Easy enough. Janus opened the flask and poured what he hoped was a shot into his own mug. It was black, he noticed, except for the yellow snake that wrapped around it, its tail firmly in its own mouth. Ouroboros. "Surely you don't intend to make me drink alone?"

As Janus had expected, Patton buckled the second he was pushed. "I guess not."

It was funny, Janus mused as he carefully tipped rum into Patton's coffee, how lying was only off-limits when Janus suggested it. Hilarious.

But now wasn't the time for bitterness, now was the time to repay the debt he owed Patton. "Cheers," he said, pocketing the flask once more.

"Cheers."

Janus sipped his coffee. "You put milk in this," he observed.

Patton's smile was surprisingly sly. "I know you want me to think you take it black. Virgil did too, at first. I know you ‘Dark Sides’ have an image you like to uphold."

"And how does Virgil take his coffee now?" Janus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"With Snickers-flavored creamer."

"Well, I do take my coffee black," Janus lied.

Patton's smile never faltered. "We'll see, kid-- Uh, Janus."

"Patton," Janus said, before he could start thinking about the implications of Patton wanting to call him 'kiddo,' "you are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"Maybe eventually," Patton said, suddenly unable to look Janus in the eye. "At some point."

"Tomorrow will come whether or not you sleep. It's definitely better to pull an all-nighter and feel like garbage instead of facing everything with a clear head."

"I know." Patton leaned forward so he could rest his head on his hand.

For a moment, Janus was tempted to mirror him. Sitting up straight was becoming quite the chore. "I know how the others love a calm, rational discussion."

"Oh, I wish." Patton's expression turned wistful.

Janus stifled a yawn behind his hand. He had half-expected the coffee to counteract the depressant effect of the alcohol, but all he had to show for the combination was a racing heart.

"I'll be fine out here if you want to go to bed," Patton said. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, he brought his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

It was a tempting offer. A day ago, Janus would have taken it. After all, it wasn't like he cared about Patton outside of professional courtesy. They weren't friends. But guilt nagged at him and wouldn't let him entertain the idea of abandoning Patton for longer than a second.

"That's a remarkable impression of a window," Janus said, waiting for Patton to look confused before elaborating, "I can see right through you."

"You got me." Patton smiled sadly. "That's something I've always admired about you, Janus."

Now it was Janus' turn to be confused. "What?"

"You're so… clever."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "Please do keep trying to change the subject."

"It's just… I don't want to have to lie there and, and think about today and everything I did wrong. I hurt Thomas. I hurt my friends." Patton's eyes were shiny behind his glasses; the unshed tears sparkled in the light when he locked eyes with Janus. "Aren't you going to think about the same thing?"

Anger flared, perhaps prematurely, in Janus' chest. "About what you did wrong today?"

"About what you did wrong," Patton said timidly.

"I," Janus said icily, "didn't do anything wrong." He stared Patton down across the table, jaw set, daring him to push back. Let him lecture and nag, let him prove that he hadn't changed no matter what he said.

But Patton only nodded, his face lined with misery. "Okay," he softly. "I think you're right, Janus. We should go to bed."

Janus thought about how much faster he could get to bed if the table was cleared, and all the dishes and cards vanished in a blink.

"Um, Janus?" Patton said.

"Yes?"

"I don't regret everything that happened today."

"Oh?"

Patton only nodded and sank out.

Janus made a beeline for his own room; better to find his way there on foot rather than risk appearing in the wrong spot.

Once inside, he looked around to ensure nothing was amiss, eyes roving over the dark wood of his bookshelves and desk, his mirrored closet doors, the leather armchairs across from his bed.

Everything was exactly as Janus had left it. He nodded, satisfied, set his hat on the nightstand, and sprawled out of top of the covers without bothering to further undress.

One hazy thought crawled to the surface of his mind before he fell asleep: At least he wouldn't be one of the regrets haunting Patton tonight.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #janus sanders #moceit #spicywrites soft-shoe shuffle #song featured is: race among the ruins - gordon lightfoot #pics are free to use from unsplash and wikimedia commons

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touchmycoat · 4 years ago

Note

5, 6 (i already know this is some insane amount), 9, 10, 16, 23, 26 (house)

BAAABE :*

5. What is the perfect environment for you to write in?

my office cubicle apparently kdsjfnksd

no but genuinely anywhere i can zone out. i make faces & mutter to myself when i write tho so, anywhere where that wouldn’t draw weird glances lmfao

6. If you’re really concentrating, how many words can you write in a day?

bahahaha i think Farmer’s Almanac holds the record rn—10k, give or take.

9. Do you prefer to write AUs, canon divergence, or canon-compliant fic?

#selfintrospection, my pattern per fandom seems to be starting with canon divergence! I’m a side characters ho, y’all know this, so I always like to recenter the narrative & get a surer foothold in my own interpretations of character first. but after that.... no preference! I love (and have written) all three to great enjoyment heheheh just depends on where i wanna see ‘em fuck

10. Do you enjoy writing dialogue, exposition, or plot the most?

NFJDNFJDNFJD HOW CAN I CHOOSE

Exposition is sexy, and i get to be the most experimental & excessive & self-indulgent here w/ style choices.

Dialogue is sexy, ‘cause voices and humor and dirty talk and heartbreak and communication!!! I’m a movie ho so i’m all about that plot-driving script game ;;;;

Plot is sexy ‘cause that’s where you get to fuck around with all the canon themes, subvert & avert & redistribute them!!!!!!!! I’m a slut for that!!!!!!!!!

can’t choose won’t choose :’D

16. What is your most underrated fic?

LMFAO you know i’m gonna say Sword of the Yi Maiden ;) she’s basically like, our child ;;

23. If you had to remix one of your own fics, which would it be and how would you remix it?

well once i sort out the single dad!Song Lan universe, i’d loooooove to switch gears & swerve into single dad!Xiao Xingchen B) just for kicks. But where Song Lan is like, a high school lit teacher and A-Qing is our favorite local delinquent child. XXC gets called in for a parent-teacher conference, and he’s actually kind of dreading it at first because AQ honestly never had too many complaints about the English teacher, so if this Song Laoshi was suddenly going to betray his daughter’s trust and tattle on her XXC would def take AQ’s side.

But! Turns out SL’s calling him in to be like “hey, AQ never does homework but is fine with participating in class if i kind of trick her into arguing about it, so i figured she just really doesn’t like being told what to do. That’s fine! But that also means I don’t think she’ll respond well to me sitting her down to talk about her higher education options, so I figured I’d run it past the parent first to see if you have any thoughts about how we’re going to proceed.”

it’d be SO fucking funny... AQ stops skipping class or stops zoning out the moment she catches onto her dad’s little ~thing for Song Laoshi. She starts challenging him in class instead on every little thing (”yeah but don’t you think it’s inherently racist to require us to read conrad at all, if there are so many books out there written by actual African postcolonial authors”) but he’s just happy she’s engaging so they bond

they’re both super proud and near tears at graduation, and AQ is too but to hide her own embarrassingly feelings she’s like “don’t pretend y’all aren’t just crying ‘cause you can finally date each other now that it won’t be fucking WEIRD for me”

26. Which part of House was the hardest to write?

hmmmmm I think I had the most number of false starts w ch. 3!! i never save shit rip but at one point i straight up had like.... 13 pages all blacked out? Oh i remember, the scene where AQ first tests SL. I had that set in like, the breakfast stall, in a busy street, a quiet street, etc. etc. I was putting each of their conversations in different contexts too, just seeing how they would play out based on the surroundings??? i even thought about dropping AQ’s POV completely at one point but I’m very glad i didn’t. The current version is actually the very first opening for the chapter i ever wrote so, el oh el, i try not to think all that effort went to waste. It’s more like, I had some ideas, but i had to prove none of them would work before i could proceed with this one, y’know?

BUT TELL YOU WHAT I DID SAVE THO. The first draft of the Ch. 2 opening? After I wrote this i was like “yikes this is way too conventional a set-up for a flashback let’s just do it,” and wrote the current version on ao3 lmao. I kept the chapped knuckles thing~

Under the Cut:

((Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing Asks!))

Song Lan stood at the entrance of his room in the inn, fist clenched hard around Fuxue’s hilt as the rain came in. Night had been the herald, and now, the lantern at the top of the stairs to Song Lan’s left was flickering wildly, buffeted about by the stormy wind.

The inn’s owner, an older woman in her 50s, spoke a string of worried utterances as she hurried up the stairs to close the window. As her hands approached the latch though, Song Lan sensed bloodthirst. Fuxue went flying.

The woman screamed, but the harm was over; a mutated critter of a hungry ghost slumped against the window frame, pinned there by Fuxue’s cool blade. Instead of closing the window for her, Song Lan pressed two paper talismans on either side. He pulled out Fuxue and watched the hungry ghost dissipate.

“Daozhang, daozhang, gratitude,” the woman wept. “A few here and there is nothing, you know? But once they begin to stay, and bigger things start to come, and we have young ones in the house, oh, it terrifies me, what state this city has been falling into…”

Fuxue returned to its sheathe, and Song Lan still had his fly-whisk tucked in his arm. He gave the inn owner a polite bow.

“I will attempt an extermination tonight.”

“Daozhang is so reliable,” the woman said, tears instantly transforming into simpering gratitude. Her distress had been in part a show, meant to move Song Lan into action. Song Lan did not mind; this was his third night at the inn, after all, and the second time the inn owner’s requested a favor from him. It stood to reason that she would think he needs more affective convincing, even if she’s wrong.

“I may trouble you for tea upon my return,” he murmured. When the woman reached out to pat his elbow in a matronly gesture, Song Lan stepped back, disguising the gesture as a readjustment of his robes as he replaced the stack of talismans back in his sleeve.

“Of course,” she replied, hand waving in the air before lowering back down to her side. A spot of tension eased at the base of Song Lan’s neck. “The stove never stops burning in our kitchen, particularly when we have guests. Just give our door a knock if the evening chef isn’t around. We’ll take care of you.”

Song Lan was grateful. He’d need the hot drink when he returned from the rain—soaking in the deluge always left his skin feeling beaten and bloated. And the sensation, if untreated, never failed to transform itself into two long iron nails hammered deep into his skull and brain. The pain was best avoided if at all possible.

(Xiao XingChen knew this about him. Nothing’s ever eased the migraines faster than XingChen’s smile as he wordlessly pushed a cup of hot water or tea across the table. Nothing’s ever distracted Song Lan from the pain more effectively than wondering exactly what would happen, if XingChen’s fingers lingered and his own could touch, just lightly, those perpetually chapped knuckles.)

(Take better care of yourself, Song Lan had once chastised when blood came seeping up between cracked skin.

I forget to, XingChen had confessed, sheepish lines crinkling around his eyes.

Had Song Lan been anybody else, he would’ve said out loud what he wished he could’ve said out loud: I’ll do it then.

Had Song Lan been anybody else, he would’ve thumbed a layer of protective grease over Xiao XingChen’s dry hands himself, save them both the need for cheesy lines and impotent promises. Words often got him into trouble, he knew this; he much preferred the vows made in every shared action that was mutually fostered into consistency. But what did it say about him, that his hands flinched from touch and Xiao XingChen walked at a careful radius around him, that he couldn’t make a vow on any level that counted?)

The extermination was no reprieve from the discomfort, the dissatisfaction, the disassembly of it all. The sky was falling apart and so was his skin. Moderation was less a stranger to Song Lan than longing, but tonight, the berating of his body was not moderated at all.

A year of searching, over, just like that.

An opportunity to apologize, gone, just like that.

A promise.

A dream.

So do you like him then? You want to really build a family with him?

Gone. Just like that.

#microdactyls #asks #THANKS BABE #LOVE ME SOME NAVEL GAZING

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kalgalen · 7 years ago

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Blood On My Name (1/?)

GUESS WHO WROTE A FIC

So I started that thing about two years ago, and i've only finished the first chapter (go me!). I do have big plans for that fic though, so please comment if you like it, it'll encourage me not to sit on my ass for two more years until the next chapter lmao

The first chapter contains mentions of abusive relationship.

(it’s also on ao3 but since tumblr isn’t allowing people to put links in posts anymore it’s all here. you can still come and give me a kudo if you want! my username is kalgalen there as well.)

The icy water felt like a slap on their face, stinging their skin unpleasantly but clearing up their mind from the alcoholic fog it had sunk in the previous night. They breathed in deeply, trying to get their upset stomach to settle. Reluctantly, they raised their eyes from the sink, their hands clutching tightly at the white porcelain to avoid simply falling over and cracking open their skull on the edge of the bathtub. Their gaze drifted up until it met their reflection in the mirror. As usual, it was a surprise to discover their own face - features that should have been familiar, but somehow always looked all wrong and out-of-place.

Hawke lifted a hand to their hair, futilely attempting to comb the messy bangs back in some sort of order. The shade was incorrect, but no matter how many times they tried to dye it, it never was the color Hawke felt it was supposed to be.

It was a very uncomfortable experience to see a stranger blinking back at you every morning.

Hawke grabbed the red toothbrush - unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the blue one next to it, purposefully forgotten by its owner as an absence painful reminder - and squeezed a bit of toothpaste on it before starting to brush their teeth. It would most likely fail at ridding their mouth of the taste of bile and cheap wine, but it was better than to bury themselves back under the covers and ignore the entire world until it stopped hurting.

When they were done, they thoroughly rinsed their mouth and splashed some more water on their face. The small efforts at self-care were comforting and much needed, and Hawke almost felt human again by the end of it. Recovering two small pills from a white and blue box - elfroot-based painkillers, strong enough to deal with the throbbing headache Hawke could feel pounding at the edge of their mind - they exited the bathroom.

Painful headaches often meant accidentally setting things on fire, and that wasn't a thing Hawke was willing to deal with this early in the morning - or, as they discovered when they took a look at the kitchen clock, at half two in the afternoon.

To be fair, they had passed out pretty late the previous night. This shouldn't have been a surprise.

Hawke retrieved a glass from a cupboard, noticing how empty it had started to look. They'd have to do the dishes in the near future. Why didn't they get a dishwasher sooner? It would have spared them countless arguments with their siblings about whose turn it was to do the chores - and it would have cleared some time for their mother to live her life instead of taking care of her three grown-up children.

Hawke set the glass on the table with a bit too much vivacity. There was no use crying over spilled milk. It was too late for regrets.

But even as they kept repeating themselves that what had passed had passed, sitting alone at a kitchen table designed for a much larger number of people, sipping their water to nurse their hangover, Hawke was becoming more and more aware of the silence around them. There was faint sounds of traffic coming from outside, echoes of Kirkwall living and moving around them, but in the Amell estate stillness filled every corner, laying dust and shadows down where laughs used to ring. The emptiness weighted hard on their shoulders, making it difficult for them to breathe. Guilt, loneliness, the indescribable fear of not having anybody to hold, to talk to, to acknowledge their existence - everything was being weaved into a knot Hawke could feel tightening against their throat.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don't think about the time you could have spend with Mother, if you hadn't been so selfish. Don't think about Carver enrolling in the army and leaving for Seheron, because risking his life there was preferable to putting up with your presence here. Don't think about Bethany who chose to accept that scholarship for Ostwick's University, when Kirkwall's offered exactly the same program. Don't think about how disappointed Father would be of his first born for failing at keeping the family together, and instead lamenting about their own fate while nursing a hangover.

Don't think.

Their breathing back under control, Hawke finished their drink in one gulp and got up, setting the glass in the stainless steel sink among the other dirty dishes. They’d have to take care of that later.

***

Merrill always found social conventions baffling. So little of it made sense, and "that's how things are" wasn't a good enough reason for her to follow absurd rules. Why should she leave a beaten animal at the hands of its abusive owner? How could an employer decide that more money for them outweighed a better living situation for the people below them? Why was she allowed to walk on this patch of grass, but not on the one just next to it?

Granted, that specific patch of grass had been situated on the other side of a fairly large wall, which usually meant strangers weren't welcome beyond that point.

Still, Merrill didn't do anything wrong. A garden was made to be visited, not locked behind iron gates and open only to a handful of rich important people. She had climbed the wall separating the backyard of the precinct from the rest of the town and walked the paved alleys drawn according to Orlesian patterns. She had touched the rough barks of the oaks, grazed the soft skin of the birch trees, smelled some of the delicate roses blooming on an ancient stone arch. There hadn't been anyone around at the time, and she had decided that she deserved a short nap near the quiet stream running across the garden. She had settled on the grass, breathing in the fresh smell of clean water and healthy flora, the cacophony of the city reduced to a dull and distant background noise.

This wasn't something she had the occasion to experience often back in the alienage, and she had drifted off pretty quickly - only to be woken up by a loud voice demanding to know what she was doing here, and a large hand descending on her to grab her arm.

She had been brought in Viscount's Keep itself and sat on a chair in front of a stern-looking woman. Merrill could feel her silently judging her too-sharp ears and the shape of her eyes, all the small details that betrayed the non-human blood in her veins. She had affected an innocent expression and batted her eyelashes.

That kind of person was always willing to believe she was too dumb to lie, and she wasn't about to overlook any points in her advantage.

Half an hour later, Merrill had given every first name she could think of but her own, invented a dozen family names from her surrounding, and she was pretty sure the lady behind the desk would have locked her up long ago hadn't she been convinced that Merrill was, in fact, incapable of remembering her own name. Merrill loved it when some people's bias against the elf-blooded population worked in her favor.

"Let me see her! You don't have the right to- Hey! Hands off!"

Merrill looked toward the sound of the commotion, catching sight of light blond hair. It confirmed what the yelling already told her: that Velanna was here, and ready to tear her way through half the precinct to get to Merrill. She smiled and raised her hand.

"I'm here, Vel," Merrill waved as her roommate shoved aside a policeman twice her size.

Velanna all but ran to her, catching her hands as if to make sure she was okay - in fact, Merrill could feel tendrils of magic reaching out to her, assessing her condition.

"Creators, you're okay," Velanna signed in relief, before glaring daggers at Merrill's interrogator: "Why is she being detained?"

"Trespassing," the woman answered. She had gotten even surlier at the sight of Velanna's facial tattoos.

“Oh, lethalin," Velanna sighed. "Again?"

The use of the elven word was mostly destined to keep Merrill's name hidden, but it also made the cop shift uncomfortably on her chair.

"Miss, your friend needs to stop doing that. Viscount's Keep gardens are an inestimable heritage. We can't simply open it to people-"

"People like us?" asked Velanna with a smile that showed all her teeth. "Knife-ears? Vermin? Go ahead, you can say it. It's nothing I haven't heard before."

"I wouldn't..." the woman stammered, looking horrified - and, Merrill noticed, slightly shameful. "I didn't mean to-"

"But you did," Velanna interrupted her, venomous. "You shemlen cops only care about your own, don't you?"

The woman's expression became stormy under the insult, and Merrill nervously pulled her coat tighter around her body. This was going too far. She opened her mouth to intervene, when a new voice rose.

"That's enough."

Velanna kept her eyes fixed on the person she seemed to consider as her new archnemesis while Merrill turned to the speaker. It was another policewoman, her red hair tied back and a disapproving expression on her face. For some reason, her straight posture and the fine line of her mouth looked familiar to Merrill, as if she was an echo of a blurry dream.

“I’ll take care of this,” the familiar woman said, and gestured for Merrill to get up.

Merrill did so, eager to get away from the battle of will occurring between Velanna and her interrogator - she literally could feel sparks crackling in the air. She had to take her friend’s hand to drag her away from the desk and toward the red-haired lady waiting in front of a door.

“Enter,” the woman said with a gesture in direction of the inside of the office. “It won’t take long."

Merrill squeezed Velanna's hand in a way she hoped was reassuring and stepped into the room.

It was small, but the window opened in the opposite wall made it look more spacious. The shelves aligned on the walls, neat and structured, implied that the office's occupant was an adept of order and organization, but the desk in the middle of the room suggested otherwise. Covered in uneven piles of paperwork, there was barely any space to write. A small place was cleared at the foot of the desk lamp for a frame the size of a hand and an empty mug. Merrill could discern a name on a copper plate half-buried under circulation forms: A. VALLEN.

The woman - Vallen, Merrill guessed - closed the door behind them and looked at her.

"I'll be quick. I can arrange for this incident to be forgotten-"

"Why would you do that?" Velanna questioned. She wasn't as aggressive as before, but she was still tense, and had placed herself a bit in front of Merrill. The message was clear: don't try anything funny.

Vallen looked slightly annoyed at the interruption. She barely glanced at Velanna before continuing, talking directly at Merrill:

"As far as I'm concerned, you didn't do anything wrong. You're free to go, on one condition."

Velanna mumbled "here it is". Merrill simply nodded.

"What is it?"

Vallen looked incredibly tired for a couple of second. She sighed.

"Just... Don't get into anymore trouble.”

"That's all?" Merrill exclaimed. She could feel Velanna holding her hand a little tighter, her manner of saying: don't trust her.

The woman shrugged.

"Those gardens have been made to be admired. Keeping people away from them is stupid, but it's the law."

Merrill nodded.

“Fine. I’ll be more careful.”

Vallen offered her a tight smile, as if she wanted to seem friendly without having the slightest idea of how to actually get to that result.

“Good.”

She walked to the door and pushed it open, waving for them to get out. When Merrill walked passed her, she added:

"Next time, don't get caught."

The door closed in their face, and Merrill opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said:

"Well, she didn't exactly say I couldn't come back. Right?"

Velanna rolled her eyes.

***

Aveline exhaled in the relative privacy of her office, leaning against the door she just closed. Fishing her cellphone out of her pocket, she scrolled through her contacts until she found the one she was looking for, and pushed the dial button. While she waited for her interlocutor to answer, she approached the window. It gave directly over the stairs leading to Viscount's Keep and offered her a good view of every person coming and going around it.

Over the phone, a man picked up.

"Yeah?"

He sounded distracted. Aveline didn't bother with pleasantries and got directly to the point.

"I think I found one of the persons you are looking for."

On the other end of the line, she could hear the man brighten up.

"Really? Who, and how? Do I have to bail anybody out of jail?"

Aveline made a face. What kind of person knowingly searched for people for whom being in prison was an expected situation? She replied nonetheless:

"A woman. Small. Dark hair, green eyes. About... twenty years old? Might as well be in her early thirties, though."

This was the thing that confused her the most about elf-blooded people: they didn't seem to age.

"Sounds like Merrill," the man mumbled - more to himself than to Aveline, she suspected.

"She trespassed in the Keep's gardens. That's where we found her," she continued.

The man chuckled.

"Yeah, sounds like Merrill alright. She always loved that place."

"You have weird friends," Aveline remarked. The woman and her tattooed companion had exited the police station and were currently standing in the middle of the stairs. The blonde seemed upset and was making large movements with her arms. The brunette - Merrill - appeared to be trying to calm her down.

"Hey, Red. They are your friends too."

"You convinced me to help you - but I don't know those people. I don't consider them my friends." After a second, she added: "And it's Deputy Chief Vallen for you, serah Tethras."

This brought another laugh from him.

"In another life, you got angry at me for not giving you any nicknames."

"This is not-" She huffed in irritation. "Even if I believed in your reincarnation tale, this is not "another life". As far as I'm concerned, this is the only life I have."

"Oh, Aveline. Ever the skeptical. Good, we need people like that too."

Aveline ignored the provocation.

"What do you even want from her?"

"Same as always. I want to reform the old gang." He sounded almost nostalgic. "Actually, it's a good thing you found Merrill first."

On the outside, Merrill had taken her friend's hand between her own. Apologizing, maybe, for a reckless - if usual - behavior.

"And you're just going to... what, walk up to her and announce that your souls have been acquaintances since the Dragon Age and that it means you have to hang out until you die again? Do you really think she's going to believe you?"

But as soon as the words left her mouth, Aveline reconsidered them. If one person in Kirkwall was disposed to swallow that kind of fiction, it was probably that girl.

Obviously, Tethras knew it too. He emitted a short bark of laughter.

"See, that's the difference between you and Daisy. She's a believer. And she's smart. Perceptive. She'll know. Do you still have the pictures of the others?"

Aveline absently glanced over to her coat, knowing the drawings he had given her were stuffed in one of the pockets.

"Yes."

"Good. Keep me updated."

She produced a noncommittal grunt. She didn't appreciate being given orders by civilians. Tethras visibly took it as a solid "yes".

"Good," he repeated. There was a short pause before he said, almost shyly: "Aveline?"

"What?" she breathed out wearily.

"Thank you."

Then he hung up.

***

The sound of keys outside the apartment made Fenris raise his eyes from his book. He tensed up imperceptibly as the door latch unlocked and instantaneously admonished himself for still having this reaction - you are safe now, and he cannot hurt you.

Some things were hard to remember some days.

Fenris slipped an old receipt between the pages of the book and stood up just as Varania pushed the door open, struggling to bring in three groceries bags. Her cheeks were red and her breath was short, obvious result of having dragged heavy bags up four flight of stairs. She frowned as soon as she saw her brother standing in their kitchen.

"Help me with this, will you?" she groaned, straightening up and putting a hand against her painful back.

He immediately joined her and grabbed two of the bags, hauling them on the kitchen counter with a grunt, and started to sort the items in the cupboards.

“How was your day?” he asked, putting away a couple of cans of beans in the storage cabinet below the microwave.

“Good, good. The usual. A guy brought in a dog with a broken leg, another arrived with a snake that somehow managed to tie itself into a knot. There was that kitten - white, fluffy, pure Orlesian Longhair, a real beauty - who started puking everywhere as soon as the examination started. It took two hours for me to clean everything. Oh, and a woman wanted to know if she’d get a fennec by breeding a fox and a cat? Yeah, I know,” she said, noticing Fenris’ disbelieving expression. “Like, how do you intend on catching a fox, lady?”

“That’s the lesser part of the problem,” Fenris mumbled, storing away the last of the foodstuff and scrunching up the plastic bags to put them away with their collection of other plastic bags stuffed in a bigger plastic bag. Varania just shrugged.

“I’m glad I wasn’t the one who had to explain to her exactly how impossible it was. I wouldn’t have been able to be half as patient as Arianni was. Anyway, how was your day?”

Fenris emitted a non-committal grunt, leaning his back against the counter.

“It was fine,” he answered eventually. “Got some reading done.”

“Did you get out of the apartment at least? Get some fresh air?”

He huffed. Varania sighed.

“You know you should get out more. It’ll do you some good.”

“I already go out! I work!” he protested, annoyed and feeling guilty.

“I meant go out for fun, and you know it. Socialize a little. Make some friends.”

Fenris smiled sweetly at his sister.

“I don’t need any friends. I have you.”

Varania tutted, grinning despite herself.

“You won’t get away with it by acting charming. I know all your tricks, they won’t work on me.”

Fenris laughed.

“Maybe I do need some new friends, some who will fall for my tricks.”

There was a loud thump against the wall of the living room, and Fenris couldn’t help but jump, instantly tense. A series of muffled words came from the neighboring apartment, expletives screamed by a feminine voice the siblings knew too well.

“They’re fighting again,” Varania said, somber.

“You mean, Hadriana is angry and Orana is afraid,” Fenris growled, his heart still beating fast and hard from the scare. Really, he should have been used to it by now; it happened at least twice a week, more if Hadriana was feeling particularly cruel. She would yell at her girlfriend - probably for no particular reason, since Orana seemed to be an adorable person, always polite and agreeable when Fenris bumped into her on the landing, whereas Hadriana was cold and distant. No audible response would come from Orana when those outbursts happened, and Fenris could only imagine her trembling in front of her partner, unable to defend herself.

The whole situation hit too close from home, and he dug his nails into the palm of his hands to avoid doing something he’d regret - although driving his fist into Hadriana’s face seemed like an excellent idea at the present time.

“We can’t do anything,” Varania reminded him softly. “As long as she doesn’t hit Orana, we can’t call the police. They won’t believe us.”

“Why do we have to wait for Orana to get hurt? It didn’t work out that well for me, did it?”

Varania looked uncomfortable and shifted on her feet, avoiding his eyes.

“Look, maybe I could talk to Orana next time I see her. I might be able to convince her to do something. Maybe move away, or something.” She tentatively crossed his gaze. “I’m sorry, I can’t do more.”

He shrugged.

“Okay. I have to go get ready for work now. I’ll be coming back home at 3, so don’t wait up on me.”

He left the kitchen without a look behind him, feeling sick in his stomach.

***

Thrift-shops were the richest places on Thedas.

Not because of the monetary value of what was being sold, obviously - but because of the memories attached to them. Isabela had retrieved a massive amount of souvenirs wandering through piles of discarded belongings, echoes of ageless arguments or fleeting moments of happiness dancing at the tips of her fingers as she ran them through dusty old clothes, half-corroded jewelry and stained records of times long passed.

But Isabela wasn't interested in sweet family memento. What she was looking for was far more tangible - and lucrative.

She was riffling through crackled maps. Among those were some ancient enough to have belonged to her great-grandmother - not that she ever met her: Grandma Iria had died at sea long before Isabela herself was even born. Some were barely readable, the ink rubbed away by the brush of countless hands. Most were only pieces of paper, and Isabela pushed them aside, her brows furrowing as she waited for a sign, a familiar tug on her mind that would tell her there was an interesting secret trapped in one of the scrolls.

After fifteen minutes of fruitless research, Isabela sighed in frustration. Some days were not lucky. She straightened back up, leaving the box of maps, and stretched ostensibly. Her eyes ran distractedly on the shelves around her. Any of the objects exposed here could contain an information that might be worth selling: some long-buried scandal, the location of a forgotten treasure - or even better, of an antique dwarven thaig. Anything she could make a profit of, really. Isabela didn't count being picky among her character flaws.

She was going to inspect a bundle of delicate porcelain figurines when a glint on the far wall caught her eyes. Walking carefully around crates of cracked glasses, she approached the item that had attracted her attention.

It was a sword - or rather, a dagger. It was about as long as her thigh, the blade delicately curved and lines carved in the faded material of the guard. It looked rivaini in origin, and Isabela found it inexplicably familiar. Something in her looked upon that weapon and claimed: mine.

Throwing a glance around to check if anybody was in sight, Isabela got on the tip of her toes to unhook the dagger from the wall. It weighed nicely in her hand, her fingers a perfect match for the grooves in the wood. It was bigger than the knives she was used to, but it seemed like it had been made for her.

She gasped when the flash hit her, etching images into her mind with a stunning clarity.

She could see herself, a indigo kerchief keeping her hair out of her face and long black boots climbing high on her legs. She had the blade strapped in her back, along with its twin. She was walking on a beach, recalling a soft seashore wind caressing her skin. She could hear people talking, but their voices sounded distant, as if coming from behind a wall of water. Three people were with her - friends, her brain supplied. One of them was a woman with a heart-shaped face and huge, luminous eyes, clad in a green tunic and some sort of chainmail suit. She was holding a staff in her right hand and conversing with her companion, a man of small stature wearing a dark armor and bowing slightly under the weight of the monstrous sword sheathed in his back. He looked sour, and Isabela felt mocking words escaping her mouth, once again without being able to understand them. The man's lips twisted in annoyance, but the woman started to laugh. It was only then that Isabela noticed their pointed ears and the markings on their faces.

Elves.

Isabela knew a lot of people who had elven ancestors, but that was the first time she met the Real Deal. Those memories were old.

Suddenly, the elves quieted, and Isabela herself fell silent without knowing why. Then she noticed the last member of their group had stopped in front of them, a fist half-raised to signal them to wait. Isabela couldn't see the face of their leader, only the dusty fur pauldrons on their shoulders and the clawed gauntlets protecting their hands. They were talking, and whatever they said seemed to worry the elves who exchanged a glance and readied their weapon. Isabela felt her body shift into a fighting stance. There was a couple of seconds of anxious waiting.

And the undead started to rise from the ground.

The blade produced a loud clang when it hit the ground, startling Isabela. She breathed in deeply, trying to calm the beating of her heart as her eyes searched for terrifying zombies reaching for her. Of course, there was none.

"Hey! What was that?" the owner of the shop roared from beyond the racks, making chipped teacups and other random trinkets rattle on their shelves.

"Nothing, Xenon! Go back to sleep!" Isabela yelled back.

"Didn't sound to me like nothing! What you break, you pay for, ye pirate!"

"I didn't break anything, you old rag! Maker," she mumbled, leaning down to pick the dagger up. It was - thankfully - intact. She grazed the edge of the blade almost tenderly, fascinated, and whispered to herself: "I didn't break it, but I'll pay for it."

This was far more interesting than the location of any lost treasure.

***

The collar was painfully constricting his throat, making the simple action of breathing an act of rebellion. He tasted blood in his mouth, like copper and iron on his tongue. He wanted to scream, to fight, to break free from the chains and to tear the entire place down. They didn't have the right. They couldn't.

Except they very much could. They had all the power he didn't possess, the power to fill him with emptiness - or to lock him up and throw away the key.

The walls were close, too close. It seemed like he could touch two opposite sides of the room just by laying down, and the top of the room looked low enough to bump his head against, if he ever had the courage to stand up.

He was going to die here.

The realization hit him, and it felt as if the ceiling had cracked and dropped on his shoulders. He was going to die here, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Anger and despair filled his lungs like molten lead. The manacles were burning on his wrists, making something stir in him - something terrible, something that should have stayed asleep and that he couldn't let out again at any cost. Something that demanded

justice.

Anders woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding fast in his chest. He sat up in a jump, mouth gaping and eyes wide, glance shooting from one darkened corner to the next, in search for an eventual threat - but he was alone, save for the little ball of fur nuzzling at his side.

"Hey, Purr," he mumbled, his voice hoarse and his tongue feeling like a piece of old parchment.

Purrcival meowed softly, pushing his nose against the man's hand. Anders obliged him and started petting the cat, distractedly rubbing at his own throat with his free hand. He couldn't remember the details of his dream, but the bits and pieces he did remember - the horror, the helplessness, the all-encompassing rage - made him glad he had woken up when he did; those were memories he wasn't eager to relieve.

Shooing the cat off the bed, Anders pushed away the covers and got on his feet. The sun was shining through the gaps in the blinds, inscribing rays of light on the old wood floor beneath the window. Given the spot on which they fell, it had to be about two in the afternoon - the previous night had been rough. Anders picked up his cellphone from the place he had dropped it beside the bed. He tapped the screen twice and squinted at the time it displayed: 02:43. Lirene wouldn't be needing him before five - for her official business, and for the less official one. In the meantime, he could definitely treat himself with some coffee.

Getting dressed rapidly in dark, nondescript clothes, he grabbed the woolen beanie on the kitchen table, stopped to check if Purr's bowls were still filled enough, and paused in front of the mirror by the door.

Anders ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the black strands. The blonde roots were starting to show. Dying his hair was a poor attempt at camouflage, but every precaution was worth taking.

Pulling the hat over his head and shrugging his coat on, he left.

***

Real Dwarves didn't dream.

Real Dwarves did business, stayed among themselves, hoarded old things. Real Dwarves remembered.

Real Dwarves didn't dream, and so Varric had no idea how to call the remnants of images and feelings that clouded his mind in the mornings.

It certainly couldn't be drunken hallucinations. Those were always nice, at least.

The stories in his head told tales of fighting and blood, of struggle and death. It was wreckage and thunder, treasons and old wars he only knew from what he had read in some dusty records kept in the vaults. But it was also a story of a family lost and found, only to be lost again, and composed of the most eclectic group of people Varric could ever dare to imagine, much less write about.

There was the pirate queen, all sharp smiles and sharper daggers. There was the fierce human warrior, cold-face and warm-heart. There were the two elves, similar only by the shape of their ears and the glint of their eyes. There was the spirit mage, with his shattered soul and gentle hands. And bringing them together, the Champion.

Varric’s idea of the Champion’s appearance was ever-changing. Some nights they would be a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden eyes and a booming laugh. Some other they would become a petite woman, milky skin clashing with raven hair, a whirlwind of blades and fire. Sometimes they would only be a blurry figure clothed in leather and iron, leading their mismatched group of strays into battles they always won, against all odds. Under every appearance, they inspired respect and loyalty. Under every appearance, they were his friend.

At first, Varric had discarded the dreams as a weird fantasy - having such strong bonds with a handful of companions seemed like such an incredible experience, and he hadn’t been able to replicate it with any of the other people he’d met during his life. When he had realized, through extensive researches in his family’s library, that the dreams were strangely close to events that had happened centuries ago, he had started to delve into the secret history of Thedas, the one the Chantry had managed to camouflage under the guise of myths and legends: the magic, the wars between races before humanity had conquered most of the known world, the slow decline of the elves until their blood was so watered down by human blood that their race was all but considered extinct. The dwarves had managed to survive by refusing to blend their genetics in the general mix, allowing them to preserve a large chunk of their culture, but even their heritage was fading as time went by.

The records were also talking about a mysterious figure that had saved Kirkwall countless times - a Champion, defeater of Arishok and slayer of demons. They were never described physically, instead defined by the people accompanying them. It had been quite a shock to see his own name scrawled on the brittle pages of the yellowing volume, as it had been to discover the names of the people he’d been seeing in his dreams: Isabela, Aveline, Fenris, Merrill, and Anders. It had somehow felt right, like relearning the names of his own family after far too long spent apart from them.

Since then, he hadn’t stopped looking for them, knowing that eventually, they’d all end up in Kirkwall again. That was, after all, where they belonged.

Aveline had been easy to track down. Varric was a very loveable person, and after making friends with some off-duty policemen at the Hanged Man, he’d quickly discovered that Deputy Vallen, a severe woman with red hair, was one of the persons he’d been looking for.

The others were proving harder to find. He wasn’t sure they even were in Kirkwall; after all, the world was a big place. He had asked around, giving physical descriptions to acquaintances that were most likely to see a lot of people and getting portraits drawn to allow Aveline to help him.

Despite his best efforts, his research was being unsuccessful, and he had been ready to give up, resolved to not meeting those persons he was linked to through life and death, when Aveline had found Merrill.

Seated at his desk, Varric smiled as he sorted through his papers. Merrill, the sweet elven blood mage. A part of his brain wanted to call her Daisy, and so he did. He was a bit disappointed he hadn’t been the one to discover her, but he was glad she had been found. Aveline had reacted with a lot of suspicion to his story of reincarnation and family bonds so tight they could last through the ages; he was sure Merrill wouldn’t be so hard to convince.

He got up from his chair, slipping his notes on the group in their folder and locking them up into a drawer. His family regarded his research on the subject as the result of his overactive imagination, and even though he didn’t think they’d ever try to interfere with his quest, he didn’t want to take the risk of finding his papers ruined and every clue he’d found so far destroyed.

Varric stretched, releasing the tension coming from several hours of being hunched over a desk. He put away his reading glasses and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair.

Time for some coffee.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #fic tag

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