#and leliana just pits her head in her hands while they try to be a social butterfly

[narutomaki]

my dumb ass really is just sitting here like and this is my new DAO OC who is in love with 4 of their companions and sleeps with them all freely and its wierd at first but Sten makes a joke at one point that has Alistair cackling and of course Leliana has to hear this and Zevran is snickering from across the fire Morrrigan and Wynne share their one (1) commiserating look per night Oghren doesn't exist Shale is there it's perfect

*can't play the game for real even with 0 mods*

my life is ruined my crops are withered my grain stores poisoned my

edit: I REACHED THE TAG LIMIT ON THSI POST IM SO SORRY LMAO

[nelkenbabe]

WIP: Late Night Counsel

After months of Cullen working on his personal growth, Warden Everett Amell passes through Skyhold. As unbidden memories resurface, Cullen struggles to marry the things he wants with the man he wants to be.

Part of Ivy & Twine content: mentions of Broken Circle, m!Amell x Cullen, hurt/ comfort, friendship jealous, muliti-warden-verse, BPD! Inquisitor

Cullen was pacing up and down the room, from the balcony to the stairway and back, leaving heavy boot tracks in the plush carpet. Amaryll watched him from her bed, back against the railing, knees tucked in and arms placed on top of them.

He’d been walking for minutes now without uttering a word, arms crossed behind his back but leaning forward as if he meant to gain speed. He was upset, it was easy to tell, and she had anticipated some emotional turmoil on his part as soon as Leliana had told her who Warden Brosca’s companion was. She didn’t know which form she thought it would take. Rage, shame, confusion? This was something else.

Eventually, Cullen slowed. And when he came to a halt, he looked at her.

“I went to the tavern. With… with Warden Amell. He’d asked to meet, to talk. I went.”

She held his gaze, searching his face for the question she needed to ask. 

“What did you expect from the conversation?” Amaryll asked cautiously.

He exhaled, low and deep, tilting his chin upward. 

“Some form of resolution, perhaps? Absolution? I was… unkind when he returned to Kinloch, after Warden Brosca saved the Circle. I couldn’t-”

He choked on his words. Ones he thought with such intensity that veins bulged on his temples, but he couldn’t pass them over his lips. His face turned downwards, and he opened his eyes to look at his friend with a pleading desperation. Willing her to understand something he couldn't say out loud.

Amaryll moved her legs to slide forward to the edge of the bed. Careful now.

“Did he try to hurt you?” she asked slowly.

Cullen shook his head.

“Maker, no. We talked. Just… talked. And then after-”

A deep, open-mouthed breath. 

“What happened?” Amaryll asked, keeping her voice soft, low.

“There isn’t- I mean-”

She waited.

“I knew him. Everett. In Kinloch, he was one of my charges. We rarely spoke, maybe just that one time, before he was recruited to the Grey Wardens. But he would look at me, and I would look back, and then one night…”

A pit opened where Amaryll’s stomach should have been. Gooseflesh crawled up her arms and legs as she commanded herself to not show any sign of dread.

“I caught him in the library as I was making rounds. I escorted him back to his assignment, nothing happened. Nothing happened. We spoke, and I didn’t even report him after, even though I should have. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Something about him-”

“What was it?” 

Confusion and deep agony danced in Cullen’s amber eyes, and for an instant, she recognized a part of herself in it. But it couldn’t be.

“After the Circle fell,” Cullen continued, his voice now much less frantic, somewhat dull, “as I was… kept, while my friends were being slaughtered. The demon who held me wore many faces to try and break me. Everett… Everett’s was one of them.”

It couldn’t be.

Amaryll forgot to breathe. 

An understanding overcame her of what it must’ve meant for Cullen to see the Warden’s face here, in Skyhold, where he had been safe. Away from Kinloch Hold, away from Kirkwall, working steadily to improve himself and his fear of mages. Only to be confronted with one of a handful of people who were there when that fear was buried in his core by strangers’ hands.

And understanding of what it must’ve taken Cullen to agree to meet Everett one on one.

But was that all?

She almost asked, almost couldn’t stop herself. What kind of demon was it, Cullen?

The pit inside her grew and threatened to swallow her heart.

“You said he returned to the Circle.”

“To buy lyrium potions and ingredients. I couldn’t look at him.”

He choked again, hesitated, and again there was this expression. Shame?

“I knew he hadn’t been there, knew the demon was not him, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t-”

She hated seeing him like this, rattled to his core. It might not have been fair, but at this moment she also hated Warden Amell for putting him in this state. He couldn't have without hurting Cullen, if not physically, then otherwise.

“I understand. What is it you wanted to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I- I wanted to disappear. To never see him again. But now…”

“Did you end up telling him? What you just told me?”

“He knew from Warden Brosca, I believe. He asked me how I was, back then when he came by. I walked away. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. Struck him down, maybe. Hurt myself. Or tried to… to kill him. Instead I left.”

“And now?”

“We talked,” he repeated. “We talked about everything. The night I walked him back to his quarters. Everything. He said he understood my coldness towards him. Didn’t fault me. He said…”

The words faded out. Too private and delicate to be divulged. But Amaryll knew, felt in her bones that this was why the Commander had beaten against her door in the middle of the night, breathless, chased.

Amaryll waited, waited patiently, though she pressed her fingertips into her thigh as if she meant to crush it.

“He… he kissed me,” Cullen confessed, shrinking in his armor as the weight of the news rolled off of him. “Outside of the tavern. I didn’t resist. He… he propositioned me.”

His voice trailed off. Pink flecks were appearing on Cullen’s neck, crawling up his jowls, his cheeks, his nose. He pressed his gloved hand to his cheek as if to contain the flush where it was.

It couldn’t be. But it was.

The pit had her heart, and now it was moving to her throat.

“You liked him,” Amaryll said, before it could take her tongue as well. That’s why the demon took his face. What kind of demon was it, Cullen? “You still do.”

Cullen moved back one step, then another. Leaned his hip against the chaise, let his hand drop back to the side as the blush subsided.

“I don’t know,” he replied, voice thoughtful, even. “I never considered, not in seriousness… It wouldn’t be… appropriate. Given our history.”

Amaryll breathed. She breathed through her nostrils, keeping her face neutral and her lips firmly shut.

This wasn’t about her. She had no business feeling like something was being torn from her. Another connection capped. Another friend lost. No business having the urge to claw her chest raw and open to let the seething feelings out. As if a friend couldn’t care for more than one person at a time. She knew this. She had always known this. And yet she couldn’t help the slick, visceral fear in her belly. Ugly, ugly woman. Horrible person. A bad friend.

“Warden Amell hasn’t been your charge in over ten years,” she reminded Cullen, softly, gently. If her voice was shaking, he didn’t notice it. “If this were a person from Kirkwall, somebody who had never lived outside of the Circle, then I would caution against it. But he has gone out into the world and made a name for himself outside of Circle restrictions, same as you. However the balance might have been, it is for him to decide if it is different now. And if it really is, if he wants you, and you want him-” Her voice faltered, but only a little. “-then maybe you can allow yourself this. Without guilt. Without shame.” 

She paused as a thought resurfaced. A slender, biting woman in Skyhold’s garden.

“Except… what about Morrigan? Aren’t they together anymore?”

The blush on the Commander’s cheeks returned.

“It appears they have… an arrangement,” he said stiffly. “While they’re apart.”

In spite of herself, Amaryll grinned and leaned back.

“Oh really? That’s delightful. And very convenient for you.”

She hadn’t thought it possible, but Cullen’s face turned even redder.

“I didn’t say I would-” he exclaimed loudly, only to realize that she was teasing him. He breathed in, out. “I didn’t say I would take him up on his proposition.”

The smile on Amaryll’s face faded. Her expression settled back to attentive neutrality. She watched intently as Cullen walked towards the bed, pulling off his heavy gloves, and took a seat next to her.

“I wouldn’t know…”

“What to do with yourself?”

He hesitated.

“That but also the implications. Of being… with a man.”

Amaryll exhaled lowly, in lieu of a sigh. 

“What would it make you,” she asked, “aside from somebody who enjoyed an old flame’s company for a night? Would it make you anything different than what you were yesterday?”

Cullen didn’t respond, only continued staring at the carpet. It hadn’t been the right thing to say. If she’d still had two hands, she would have folded them in her lap. Instead, Amaryll scooted closer to Cullen, leaning her upper arm to his.

“There is a saying among some Dalish clans,” she prompted airily. “When happiness beckons, we crawl. When pain beckons, we run. ”

“That is… a terrible saying. You’re making that up.”

She snorted. How well he’d gotten to know her.

“I am, but it illustrates a point. Sometimes people have an easier time torturing themselves over something that could make them happy, rather than just accept the thing itself, do you know what I mean? You can sit here all night dissecting the way you see yourself. What you thought you were in the past, what you are now, what you will be tomorrow. Or you can simply be. Make the decision you want, regardless of how it may look for others. I promise there will be people around you to support you no matter what. I, for one.”

Cullen lifted his head to meet her eyes, putting one elbow on his thigh and rubbing his nape ferociously.

“I see your point.” He paused, thinking. “Thank you.”

She nodded lightly.

“And if it is pointers you need, I can put you through to Dorian. I’m sure he would be utterly enraptured. And very helpful.”

“Don’t you dare- I could never-” he exclaimed, shooting straight up into a stand while Amaryll cackled. 

“Peace, now. This will stay between you and I unless you tell me otherwise.”

Cullen’s shoulders dropped, his expression eased. For a moment, they only looked at each other, warmly, until Cullen flexed his fingers.

“Thank you, Lavellan. Amaryll.”

She smiled back at him, heart full.

“I told you, you’re welcome here anytime. Thank you for thinking of me. Trusting me. I appreciate it.”

Cullen nodded, then flexed his fingers once more. 

“Good night,” he said abruptly, cutting through the awkwardness, before moving to leave.

He was almost down the stairs before Amaryll’s gaze fell upon the gloves he’d tossed by the foot of the bed. She scrambled to grab them, jumped towards the other end of the bed, and leaned over the railing.

“Cullen!” she called. “You forgot these!”

He halted, looking up at her. Contemplating.

“I’ll pick them up next time I’m here.”

A warmth spread through her chest, like milk and honey on her tongue. He’ll come back.

He’ll come back.

[vvakarians]

Ch. 5 of Wolves Without Teeth is now up!

Beginning | Update | Rating: 18+  

Fic Summary:

Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.

Chapter Summary: 

With Calliope mostly healed from the fight with the Pride demon, they think all will be well only to find out that their Mark has changed more than just their mindset, which comes at the worst possible time. But somehow they manage to meet with the advisors without too many ill effects.

V.  It’s still days before Calliope is able to slip from their bed and manage to dredge up enough energy to put their armor on. Artemaeus is on his earlier rounds, though it won’t be long before he walks in. Solas has already done his rounds, he mostly comes by at night when he thinks Calliope is asleep. Not one word is ever uttered between the two of them and he seems content for that to continue, confusing as that is to Calliope. The whispers pick at that concept -- perhaps he is avoiding them somehow. Did they upset him that badly on the trail to the Temple? His behavior is puzzling to say the least. Solas appears to be protective of them --as if he knows them but they can’t ever place him-- but when they try to catch his attention, his interest vanishes. 

They hum to themself as they slip on their tattered cloak, too deep in thought to notice the scurrying in the shadows of their quarters. Not until the sticky, wetness of something latching onto their wrist catches their attention. Pinpricks of terror make their hair stand on end and Calliope freezes, not daring to test the strength of whatever wrapped itself about them. Their heartbeat roars in their ears as they hazard a glance down, everything else forgotten but this. Though there is nothing to suggest anything ever touched them. Not a blemish, not even residue from what certainly was a slimy creature. When they push back the long sleeve of their tunic, there is nothing. Just their bare arm and--

What is that?

Ridges of their pale flesh seem to be jutting up slightly, creating a sort of ripple texture along the inside of their wrist. Welts the size of small coins dot along the back of their hand and palm, irritated and discolored. That terror turns into an icy panic as Calliope checks over the rest of their left hand, thrown from the need to stay frozen in place. A mirror was provided some time in the last several days so they could properly braid their hair back --something they had asked for to retain some form of control while regaining the use of their hand-- and they scramble over to it in a frenzy. There’s more than just the welts and ridges in their flesh; when they look into the glass their eyes are no longer a pale blue, they are a sickly, red rimmed green. Like the Breach. That damned thing that scars the sky and taunts them, speaks to them in their nightmares. 

That sticky sensation returns, creeping up the back of their neck while they raise their left arm up to the mirror. In  horror they watch as three of the innumerable welts slowly peel back the skin on heir hand, revealing demonic eyes that look back at them intelligently. Almost in a question. Throughout, the whispers have been silent; no buzz at the edges of their hearing. Now they rise to a scream that echoes and bounces off the inside of their skull. All nonsense, or perhaps every language on the material plane. Calliope does not know. Only that they feel the rush of being swallowed up by it, entirely consumed by whatever has trapped them here in this moment. Something that they can only later describe as other or eldrtich.

 Minutes or seconds tick by --even hours, for all they can tell-- before the door opens and startles Calliope back from the mirror. They don’t register who enters, glancing wildly at the figure and then back into the glass. Yet the eyes are no longer there. The sickly green of their own irises are however, as are the ridges and welts. Confusion replaces Calliope’s anxiety while they stare and try  hard to comprehend what the hell just happened. 

“Ser Lavellan?” 

Again, Calliope looks to the ill timed guest. There’s a face they recognize; chest length red hair that falls from beneath a deep purple hood, chainmail clinks on the outside of her robes. Leliana. It’s just Leliana. 

“I-- yes? Apologies, I think I must have spooked myself,” they murmur, still distracted but not enough to ignore her presence. 

“Do you need a healer? That arm doesn’t look good.” 

Self conscious, Calliope slips the thick woolen sleeve back over their arm and they shake their head numbly, “No. I--will speak to someone later about it. There’s no pain. It--seems that the Mark has made changes without my permission.” 

There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them. It’s obvious Leliana is at a loss for words and Calliope is too in shock to say much, not even as they move towards the door. Stiff and unsure of themself. Perhaps Solas or Artemaeus will know more. For now they need  to not think of it and are grateful that the whispers fade to a soft white noise. 

“I came to see if you wanted to meet with the others in the Chantry. Do you think you can manage that?” Leliana asks, stepping to the side briefly for Calliope. 

“I will try. That is all I can do.” 

At least the cold is a welcome distraction this time around. Soothes rather than stabs them, though Calliope is sure that will change if they spend too long outside. The sun is high and bright in the pale blue green sky, the rift sealed but still puffed and raw --like an infected wound. They merely glance at it before narrowing their eyes back down at the muddy ground, careful not to sink too deep into the muck. Suddenly they are very thankful for the boots they were encouraged to take with them. Nice and soft on the inside, perfect to combat the freezing temperatures; wrapped with some cords that jingle with wooden and bone charms. A bit of home to carry with them. The sound comforts Calliope while they follow Leliana off to the large building just beyond the trail.

It’s a short walk, just a few minutes up a long dirt path that winds around a fire pit and various tents. Calliope prepares themself for another round of vitriol, unable to forget the guard who threw that rock. But nothing comes. In fact the people that do gather whisper amongst themselves in awe, or perhaps even reverence. Though that unsettles Calliope as much --if not more-- than the hate spewed days before. Why the change in tone? 

One of the group is another familiar face -- Varric. Laughter lines crease his cheeks as he watches Calliope approach; how he can be so jovial they’re not entirely sure. But it is a comfort to see, and even makes their mouth twitch into a small smile. Or a semblance of one. He doesn’t stop with the others and in fact begins walking in line with two of them; Leliana gives him a nod of recognition as he does so. It quickly crosses Calliope’s mind that he’s wearing a coat that seems much too large for him -- the puffs of dense wool obscures much of his face, and the blocky shape of the leather makes his movements stiff. A complete wonder how he can even walk in it. 

“Spin a story that convinced them?” he asks with a wink. 

“I think so. They found my tales of a nug tripping me and slaying a dragon in the process very compelling,” they respond tiredly, “I managed to slip in a bit about your gorgeous chest hair as well.” 

Varric laughter is a deep, resounding bellow that brightens Calliope’s smile by a fraction. Though they note a slight change when he fully looks them over, his unobscured eyes taking in the changes from when they last saw each other. 

“Kid, are you feeling alright?” 

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Calliope sighs. Their breath comes in clouds before them, “The Mark has made changes. I wish I could say I knew what was happening, but for now I think I’ll be fine.” 

“You should let Chuckles know, if he hasn’t found out already.” 

That gives them pause, it’s a good suggestion and begs the question--does he? Why has he not alerted anyone if he does? 

A frown spreads across Calliope’s face and they give a short nod, “I’ll let him know after the meeting. Though I’m not sure what can be done about it.” 

“Who knows, but for all his oddness he’s pretty good at keeping it in check.” 

Another comment that makes them think too hard. What does Solas know? If the Mark and the Voice are connected, he should know of that but has never said a word about them. Did he...know this would happen as well? Calliope swallows hard and pushes those thoughts out of their mind, thankful that the large doors of the Chantry have finally come into full view. It’s harder to worry about hypotheticals when something so big is looming over you. 

“I’ll keep you posted, how does that sound?” Calliope asks, glancing his way. 

“Yeah, sure. Long as you take care of yourself, kid, that’s all that matters.”

His voice is too soft when he responds, as if a great sadness has settled in his bones-- but Calliope doesn’t draw attention to it. Not yet. Instead they try on a bigger smile for him and gesture to his much too large coat. Throngs of people start to gather around them but Calliope is too busy with Varric, the others --and their growing anxiety-- can wait. He’s been nothing but kind to them. 

“If you promise to find a better coat then I promise to do as you ask. How about that?” 

Another bellowing laugh escapes Varric, so much so there’s a jingle from the golden ringed necklace that rests on his chest. Warmth floods Calliope when they hear that, their anxiety melts away for the moment. Though they can’t help but notice the large group around them in their periphery, ever whispering, looking. 

“Does it really look that bad?” 

“Oh yes, it makes you look like a walking box,” Leliana interjects with a smirk. Calliope startles when she speaks, having forgotten she was there. She’s always so quiet.  

Calliope’s smile widens at her response, however, “Someone had to have given it to him as a joke, right?” 

“I think it was a gift from Cassandra, so something like that.” 

“Ah, that would explain it.” 

“Alright, alright! I’m sure there’s a tailor around here somewhere. You two do your important meeting and I’ll fix this disaster of a coat,” Varric snorts, rolling his eyes with affection. A welcome sight as the throng stares and Calliope’s anxiety spikes to another unimaginable height. Both Leliana and Varric take notice quickly; the one ushering Calliope into the warmer, darker Chantry, while the other bustles through the crowd, breaking some of it up. 

Inside the old, creaking building there’s a sort of calm you only find among places of worship. Though it doesn’t feel nearly as ancient of a peace as Calliope is used to. It makes their chest ache, thinking back to the sprawling temple to Falon’Din that sat deep within the Graves. How much that single ruin felt like home. Here in the torchlight, hundreds of miles from their home, Calliope brushes their fingers along the stone walls of the Chantry and wishes to be back in that flooded sanctuary, surrounded by statues of their gods that have stood against the test of time. 

The once rich but faded golds and reds of Andrastian tapestries feel familiar but foreign at the same time.  Moldy furniture and dusty books surround them, old stained glass still shining brightly in the mid morning sun. Casting rays of colors all across the muddy floor. Their mother once spoke of these places, how they brought her comfort when the world was at its worst. Not because of the religion itself, but how gentle it was in those moments where no one noticed her and she could slip off without alerting anyone. There is a remnant of that here while Leliana and Calliope slowly walk across to another pair of large, ornate doors. Symbols of the religion embossed into the dark wood, a sunburst set into the seam where you would pull them open. Familiar but still foreign. They feel like they shouldn’t be here, even in the momentary peace.

That nasally voice from days before pierces right through the calm the moment the doors swing open and Calliope can’t help but make a face of disgust. This man again? Another shemlen who thinks he knows what is right and what is wrong, Creators forbid you tell him otherwise. Chancellor Roderick stands in his white, gold, and crimson red robes to the side of a large wooden table covered in maps, and what looks like small figurines. Curious, Calliope focuses on what that could possibly mean before looking around to the others flanking the Chantry man. All humans, it seems. Another man and two women, one of which is Cassandra. 

The other man has curly blonde hair, in a slicked back style that interests Calliope --they wonder briefly how he can keep it so neat and tidy in this weather. His armor bears the many sunbursts that can be found through the building, a mix of gold and cold steel. Rich red fabric and dark furs hang around his tall, muscular form. Though his complexion and under eye bags speak of illness, sunken cheeks and a listless gaze. Perhaps he has the Blight? 

“...Roderick, save your breath,” the man murmurs, catching Calliope staring as they enter the room. 

“Why is the prisoner continuously not restrained?” 

Roderick does not waste any time on saving his breath. 

“I’m afraid chains would not do you any good, Chancellor. Has Cassandra not told you I practice magic? I could simply look at you and you’d be a crispy husk,” Calliope rolls their eyes, eliciting a snort from both the new man and the aforementioned Seeker. Though the latter seems to think that much funnier than the ill human. 

“Andaran atish’an, Ser Lavellan,” another voice cuts through the Chancellors rebuttal. 

This time it’s the new woman, dressed in swatches of golden fabric lined with thick, lightly colored and patterned furs. Necklaces hang from her soft, tan neck and glint just as her brilliant smile does. Long, dark hair frames her face in perfectly set curls that are then braided to be kept out of her eyes. Honestly, she seems much too warm and gentle to be in this situation at all, but that is exactly why Calliope assumes she is. Never underestimate the sweet ones. 

They smile back at her when greeted in elven, and bow their head respectively, “Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances.” 

There is a sound of derision from Roderick that has both Calliope and Cassandra looking his way with annoyance, the former feeling a coil of anger build in their chest. 

“What, do I offend you?” Calliope asks, raising a pale eyebrow at him. 

“These circumstances are of your own doing, of course you have offended me! The Divine is dead and here you stand, still alive.” 

“Shocking as it may seem, Chancellor, I did not kill your Divine. In fact I have been exonerated of all charges. Cassandra told me as much several days ago as I was recovering. While I don’t remember what made her change her mind, I’m inclined to think it was compelling evidence.” 

This time there’s another amused snort from the ill man and he looks up at Calliope, dark eyes sparkling a bit in the lamp light. 

“Careful, you keep prodding him and he might  explode.” 

Roderick once again opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it when Cassandra steps in with a scowl his way and a glance at Calliope. There is a brief moment where her expression turns from irritation to concern when she makes note of the change of Calliope’s eye color, which does make them wonder if they should wander about with their eyes shut from now on. 

“I believe we have some introductions to get out of the way,” the Seeker says, shaking the worry off expertly, “You know Sister Leliana, our Spymaster.” 

Leliana bows her head at the mention, smiling just a touch for Calliope who manages one in return. It’s the least they can do after her friendliness towards them. 

“Our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. She is an expert in keeping the peace,” Cassandra gestures to the woman full of warmth, and then finally at the ill seeming man, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, you would have met him at the Temple but we know how that went.” 

“I was nearly decapitated, apparently. Which I’m sure Roderick would have been pleased by,” they scoff, glancing away from Cassandra to watch the priest. He does nothing but stare right back, wrinkling his nose. 

“We are lucky you weren’t, otherwise we would not be able to do what we’re doing now,” Cassandra responds, cutting in before Roderick can get a word out. 

Something about that comment unsettles Calliope, makes them seriously consider the Seeker. She had said something about wanting them to stay, that there was danger following them possibly and they didn’t have anything on the Mark yet. Yet this doesn’t seem to be what she’s talking about. 

“I’m assuming we found something when we closed the Breach? What are we doing now?” 

A heavy silence descends upon the room like a thick blanket, extinguishing all sound so much so that the whispers come in loud bursts and Calliope’s pointed ears flutter uncomfortably. They wait for someone to say something, anything at all; nerves standing on end. 

“We saw a vision in the middle of a field of red lyrium that was at the center of the Temple,” Leliana finally speaks, looking from Cassandra to Calliope with a sharp gaze, “Someone or something was there doing a ritual, said that the Divine was meant as a sacrifice. Then you came out of the shadows to ask what was going on. That was when the Rift broke open.” 

A chill runs down Calliope’s spine, that familiar build up of anxious energy. Their eyes dart to the candles flickering just beyond the table, and one of them forms a tall pillar of fire before simmering back down again. No one seems to notice, not even Roderick who is barely paying attention to anything at all. 

“That’s good to know but that doesn’t answer my question. What are we doing now?” Calliope repeats, their gaze hardening. The whispers buzz in anticipation, shadows dancing in their peripheral vision. Once again there’s silence but it’s short lived. 

“The Divine created a writ in case her plan failed to restore peace between the mages and the templars,” Cassandra responds quietly, and taps a book on the table with a gloved hand. It is thick and old, filled with secrets Calliope assumes. 

“What does that mean?” they ask, shifting their weight nervously. 

“We are going to rebuild a group called the Inquisition, to find the Divine’s killer and end the conflict that led to her death. We could also use it to clean up after what happened with the Breach,” the Commander answers for her, and Calliope raises an eyebrow at those gathered around the table. 

“It must be invoked by both of the Divine’s Hands, and will be with or without Chantry approval,” Cassandra says, shooting a withering glance at Roderick who sighs. 

“You know how I feel about this Seeker-” 

“And I don’t care. This is the only way, you know that!” 

“We need to find a replacement for the Divine and quickly! None of this Inquisition nonsense will help us now.” The room descends into arguments and raised voices as everyone attempts to speak over the priest, who in turn raises his whine of a voice to disgustingly new levels. Anxiety and rage make the air thick, too hard to breathe, too hard to move in. From their spot at the other side of the space, Calliope watches that candle flicker once, twice, three times before it erupts into a roaring fire. All of their despair and nervousness centered on one singular wick that burns so brightly it lights up the entire room, banishing the shadows back to where they came. It’s certainly one way to get everyone’s attention. 

Their arguments dwindle into nothing as they scramble to get away from the fire just as it starts to fizzle out and become a smoking ember. Consumed, wax and all, by Calliope’s magical presence. Embarrassment washes over them at the sight but they manage to hold it together while each pair of eyes comes back to settle on them. Calliope finally breaks the silence, that slimy sensation threading through their skin as they say in almost a snarl, pointedly at Roderick --who had decided to argue.

“Create your Inquisition, we replace the Divine and find her Killer. Maybe get answers about what the fuck happened to my hand. Does that sound good?” 

There’s only a beat of silence before Roderick mumbles what could be a ‘yes’, easing Calliope’s volatile mood but not that horrific feeling of otherness wrapped around their wrist. 

“We--should get you in touch with a proper Enchanter, I think,” Cullen comments in shock. A blurting out of words, really. 

“There are mages here I can learn from, if it will soothe your fears, Commander Rutherford.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess? Cool down before we talk about our next steps.” 

It’s Josephine who speaks, light and airy. Unperturbed on the outside by what just happened but the tremble in her hands as she grips her important parchments says otherwise. Calliope doesn’t blame her. 

There’s a note of tiredness and defeat to their tone when they speak again, “I will get my magic under control, it’s been harder since the Mark. I’m sorry for scaring anyone. A recess would be good.” 

[ilovehallas]

Leave no witnesses

Relationships: Zevran/f!Mahariel, Tamlen&f!Mahariel

Summary:

As Andrastians give their loved ones to the fire, the Dalish give theirs to the earth.

Serket Mahariel knows that she's burying more than just Tamlen's body, but she never did learn how to experience grief in front of others. So she decides that she won't, and holds a funeral for two.

Tags: unprocessed grief, (not actually) unrequited love, hurt/comfort

[Events ended up aligning in the worst of ways in my game: after Zevran approached the warden to spend the night with her, he of course states that this is a matter of fun rather than feelings. Very soon after the confrontration with Tamlen happened - while I was on my way to Orzammar and the Deep Roads.]

Read on AO3

In the aftermath of the battle, it was as though all sound had disappeared in the void the fight had left. Silence droned on, deafening and maddening, not even the sheets of metal of her haphazardly thrown on armor scraping together would make a sound.

Reluctantly Serket tore her eyes away from the body before her.

“We should move camp a bit further” she stated, tone flat.

Nobody seemed to move for a moment, all of them just standing around her where they’d last slain an enemy, bodies still tense in combative postures. She couldn’t say for sure who was who, the light of the fire was in their backs so they were more like shadows than people.

“Even if we were to burn the darkspawn, their stench will linger” she continued. She didn’t like this, how her words seemed to echo in the dead air. Nobody was speaking. They were only looking at her.

“Move the camp” she reiterated. “I’ll take care of this.”

The first figures shifted, moving to follow her command hopefully. Some lingered uncomfortably, leaving with protests she didn’t bother to hear when she eventually stared them down. She must’ve said something too, but who cared what it was as long as it got the job done.

Good. She watched them, not turning her back on them just yet, not as long as she couldn’t be sure they’d stopped looking at her. Their eyes weren’t needed here, their questioning, prying eyes. Not a single one of them. Serket wouldn’t let them find answers because these weren’t questions any of them should be asking.

Something brushed up against her hand unexpectedly; her mabari Isun was circling her, reluctant to leave her side. First her sword dropped out of her hand, then her shield fell to the ground as she reached out to pat his broad head with trembling fingers. “You go too” she said, pushing gently but unyielding as the animal whined in vain at the rejection. With a sad little bark he eventually relented, trotting away to where her companions were busying themselves.

Once the sounds of the camp being torn down reached her, she set out to do her part, grabbing the nearest dead shriek. The horrid smell coming off of its deformed body stung in her nostrils and the repulsion stirring in her gut mixed with the exhaustion made it difficult to drag it away. This first one wasn’t too bad however, she dumped it into a natural shallow pit in the earth not far away. The second one was tougher, this one heavier and requiring her to get up close to securely grip it and hoist it up enough to carry. Her face was inches from its foul skin, lungs breathing in the blighted fumes. It was something visceral to hold on to, an anchor that kept her thoughts from wandering. By the last one, her limbs were shaking a bit under the strain, little shocks like lightning running through the muscles of her legs occasionally, her hair and her clothes sticking to her sweaty, itching skin, metal digging painfully into her flesh.

She surveyed her work, this little mount of meaningless dead meat. Time to face the facts. She staggered back to the field of the fight.

The sight of what remained of Tamlen was like a small earthquake, a rumble deep down at her core barely reaching the surface despite its violence. This wasn’t a case of a peaceful corpse that seemed as if he were only sleeping, the torment Tamlen had endured was readily apparent. His hands resembled claws now with how strangely contorted they were. He had no hair left; his skin was stretched tight over the bones as if most of his flesh had simply melted away, skin darkened in many places from spots of decay. Serket couldn’t even make out any last traces of his vallaslin. So this was where he’d been all this time. This was where she would follow if the Archdemon didn’t get her first.  

She’d have to dig a grave. Staying the night to sing for him wouldn’t be an option, neither would be planting a tree in blighted soil, she couldn’t offer any of the proper burial rites but she could dig a grave at least. At the very least.

Blinking against the stabbing headache, Serket looked around for any tool that could assist her because even like this she knew that she wouldn’t be able to do it with her hands. Frustration bubbled hot and angry in her when nothing caught her eye and it became apparent that she would need to go back to the others; she tried to run a hand over her feverish face but recoiled when she touched it to her skin and realized it was still covered in grime and blood.

She didn’t want to go where people were with their unfamiliar eyes, full of curiosity and pity and incomprehension. Everyone was a stranger to her, in a strange land, at once miles away from her and smothering.

With a silent sob, Serket picked up her shield again, raised it high above her head and thrust the pointed end into the earth. Again and again she hacked into the ground with it, coming to kneel in the dirt.

But of course there would be footsteps. Her eyesight now blurry from either sweat or unshed tears, she squinted at the approaching figures. This time she could see that it was two of them, one had to be Alistair, the other Zevran, trailing a bit behind. It was a cruel joke to play on her, she thought. Like a hot iron to her vulnerable flesh.

“Can we… help?” Alistair ventured, and she could see the way he helplessly turned his head as if looking to Zevran for counsel.

Serket shook her head. She wanted to tell them to go away, but as so often her tongue was tied suddenly, the words clear in her mind but somehow not coming over her lips. When the two men wouldn’t immediately leave, desperation took hold and she tried to communicate, trying to get her hands to sign words but they wouldn’t unfurl, wouldn’t release the shield she was clinging to.

“Are you sure?”

Of course she was. She wasn’t stupid. She willed her mouth to form words, anything to make them go away.

“I only need a shovel” she managed to get out, relieved that her tone didn’t seem to betray the effort it took to speak. Despite the pain she managed to get back on her feet. She wasn’t going to give them anything to see, this wasn’t the time or place for any of this.

“Wouldn’t it be—“ Zevran started, but she cut him off.

“I need a shovel, not you.”

The harshness of the words only registered in the way she had to spit them. She meant it. She really meant it.

“I guess I’ll… check if we have one” Alistair said, taking the first step backwards before he turned to face the camp instead. Zevran did so as well but not without another look at her, and as they walked away she saw that they were exchanging words she couldn’t hear. For a moment she was overcome with the urge to call them back, to beg them to help her, or to gouge out their eyes for seeing her like this.

Serket listlessly stared at the little hole she’d made in the soil. Everything about her felt so brittle. She’d hoped she would carry it with a little more dignity, but apparently not. She resumed her work even as the shield proved ineffective. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to let them intrude and endure their presence, because then at least they wouldn’t have known that it hurt. But it wouldn’t have been fair to Tamlen and her.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time she became aware of another presence approaching. Who was it this time? Serket hit the shield down harder. Wynne? Morrigan? To tell her that a spell could do what she was doing much easier or to berate her for her sentimentality? Sten, here to let her know that a buried ghoul does nothing but taint the earth? Leliana, with empty condolences for something she didn’t understand? Or one of them again. Alistair was alright with how easily he listened, but Zevran…

When she lifted her head however, it turned out that it was Isun, carrying a shovel in his mouth as he ran up to her. Expectantly the dog peered up at her, wagging his short little tail and nearly bumping the shovel’s handle against her from the excessive movement.

Wordlessly she took the tool from Isun and set it aside before she slung her arms around the mabari and buried her face in his bristly fur. Everything seemed to crash against her all at once and she was getting sucked down under fast; she pressed her eyes shut and waited for the onslaught to ease. Everything was too much all of a sudden, every little sensation burned. A wail she refused to release lodged itself in her throat, it pushed upwards but she stemmed against it with all she had, even as it choked her. She dimly noted the tears streaming down her cheeks as she waited for the end to come, one way or another. Her heart was pounding in her head. This was more than grief alone.

Isun held still for her as long as it took.

“I think it’s alright if you help” Serket said when the tide receded and leaned onto the shovel in order to stand. Isun barked a few times and pawed restlessly at the ground until she gave the sign that he could begin digging.

Serket had inevitably witnessed a few funerals in her lifetime. Life and death were intertwined, that was a law of nature that none of them would ever escape, so these occasions were commemorations of both aspects joined together. That’s why they were always a communal effort as well, to be reminded of the connections between them all, even those given to the earth. The ties that bound her and Tamlen together were knotted and wound tightly. That day they had been on the threshold together facing opposite directions; Duncan had pulled her towards life for another day then, and today she could give Tamlen that push he’d needed to go forward as well. In that way, things had ended as well as they could. Neatly and tidy.

Serket felt like throwing up. Nothing about this was good, no matter how she twisted it. She’d told Tamlen not to touch it. The clan didn’t know where he’d gone. They didn’t even know where she was now and where she’d come to rest one day. It was so unbearably unfair, all of it, that she had to bury her friend in this place so far away from home, in this pitiful grave with nothing.   She felt like throwing up, but maybe this was exhaustion.

At the end she was almost too weak to let Tamlen’s fragile body down into the hole, along with a branch she’d broken off a nearby tree. She had to arrange his limbs as much as she could so that it would fit. Once he was nestled into his resting place, Isun and her covered him back up with dirt, watching as Tamlen disappeared for the last time. What remained was only a little mound to mark the spot.

And just like that she was left the last witness of that day.

A bit deliriously, Serket scratched the mabari behind the ears, hoping that the gesture could convey her gratitude when it was all she could give right now. Soon she’d have to leave, go find the others again and find a way to pretend this hadn’t happened. There was one last rite before that that she could give to her friend.

“ O Falon'Din. Lethanavir – Friend to the Dead. Guide my feet, calm my soul. Lead me to my rest.”

The prayer was one to speak for a hahren, not somebody like her, but perhaps Falon’Din would excuse the emergency.

Serket averted her eyes upwards to the sky, the night still dark but bound to light up soon. It seemed like the right time to collapse and fall into a grave of her own. Where everything had been aching before, her body was numb now.

Isun, stubbornly loyal, wouldn’t let her. He lead the way for her as she stumbled along the path, yelping and barking at her each time she was threatening to lose her balance, pacing nervously around her each time she stopped.

“Serket?”

The sound of her name startled like she’d been caught out. Instinctively she attempted to correct her posture to appear more like herself again, glaring at the intruder without any teeth left to bite at him with.  

Zevran didn’t seem to even flinch, putting up his hands defensively. “I came here to meet you half way, not to spy on you. I didn’t see anything.”

Serket had no words for him. Why should she believe it. And why would it matter, if he was still looking at her now. Maybe he hadn’t seen the deed itself, but she still felt raw and exposed in a way she didn’t want to be in front of him. It was stupid enough the first time, by now it was nothing short of humiliating. The normal thing would be to keep walking. So she did that as well as she could, nearly tripping over her own feet when she brushed past him. With each step the weight of his gaze seemed to grow heavier; he caught her when her legs gave in.

This was so mundane. They’d supported each other like this before, when the fight didn’t go like they’d planned and they leaned on the other to walk in a simple act of camaraderie. He was too close now, too personal, but even she recognized that struggling would do nothing to help her. Don’t strip back another layer of skin now.

“Comfortable?” Zevran said in a misplaced jovial tone. Thank the creators. A million times better than feeling, than those looks.

“How long” she asked, the last words of the question coming out silent. She coughed, nearly throwing them both off balance.

“Not far” Zevran replied, “just a bit further down this path. Think we can manage that?”

A nod had to suffice as answer. It was difficult enough to move her legs when she couldn’t feel them. ‘Not far’ only told her that they’d be back sooner than she would be alright, even if time was more than relative in this moment. What was a journey to her could have been only a few minutes on foot. Tamlen was drifting years away from her now, maybe a whole life.

Serket looked around, hoping that something would catch her eye that could give her an excuse to stay behind just a little longer, so she wouldn’t be in this pitiful state when she’d have to face them. She needed to pull herself together.

“Set me down here” she commanded abruptly.

Zevran halted, but didn’t let her go just yet. “What for?”

Whether he was planning on releasing her or not, Serket tried to shake him off so she could be back on her own feet, transfixed by what she’d spotted partially concealed by tall grass. It wouldn’t get better than this river to make her inhabit the self she needed to be again. “A bath. I’m covered in filth.”

Without awaiting her companion’s response she staggered off the path the others had taken, clumsily trying to undo the bands of her breastplate but barely catching them between her fingers. There wasn’t even frustration anymore or despair, just helplessness.

Zevran kept to her side like a judgmental mosquito. She could see him eyeing her with a tilted head, anticipating the moment he might try to block her and guide her back to the flock. He snorted. “Well, maybe not such a bad idea.” They made it to the edge of the river, the water lapping at her boots. She still was clad in her armor, too uncoordinated to undo any of it.

“May I…?” Zevran started, stretching out his hands towards where she was fiddling with a clasp, hovering inches away. It felt cheap to agree, like giving in to a vice rather than accepting relief. Even though Zevran was thoughtful. There was nothing overbearingly personal about it as he helped her out of the bloodied metal and leather and the stained fabric she’d worn underneath. Only gentle assistance for a companion, as though for this brief period this was the most mundane thing in the world. Nothing more complicated than that.

Free of her armor and no thought spared to modesty she could observe the extend of the damage. Compression marks that would become bruises if not for Wynne’s interference with the process, putrid smears of darkspawn blood all over her hands and forearms, she could feel splatters of the taint dried up on her face.

Serket clicked her tongue, and Isun who had been rolling around in the grass approached her excitedly. She bent down and held out her arms to allow the mabari to lick off the blood as she half-remembered that the poison would otherwise wash into the water along with her.

At Zevran’s bemused expression she only replied “It’s okay. He’s already tainted.” Then she waded into the dark river, the coldness of the water knocking the breath out of her. As she gasped for air, her senses were sharpened to a needle-point, rammed right into her brain. Despite the shock she willed herself to get in just a little further, just a little deeper, before at long last she let her legs break away from under her. She landed in the water with a little splash in an awkward sitting position; the cold squeezed tight around her, agonizing in a way that made sense to her.  

“You can go” she called, drawing her maltreated legs to her chest.

“Shouldn’t I stay?” Zevran answered without hesitation. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“What for.”

“If I come back without you, the other grey warden might get suspicious of me, don’t you think? Yes, I think he’s been waiting for a moment like this.”

Serket shot him a wary look over her shoulder.

The grin on Zevran’s face fell a little, but stubbornly clung to a corner of his mouth. “‘Where is the warden, hm?’ You see, I left her alone in the river, nothing that could go wrong there.” He didn’t say anything for a while as the current tugged softly at Serket. “…I think it might be less awkward if we returned together. Less questions asked, for both of us.”

Somehow, Serket wanted to cry again. She only hummed. Because she loved him. She loved Zevran, pathetically. That’s why his gaze was hardest to bear and yet the only one she wanted. Even after he made it clear she was alone in this and she’d concealed the bleeding wound from him and steeled her heart. His gentleness, the way he didn’t recoil made it worse. The light of the waning stars gleamed on the water surface, little spots that danced distractingly before her eyes.

Zevran was permitted to stay, the damage was done anyway. Couldn’t even be trusted to bathe in the river by herself because of how she’d expended herself. The way they’d see her wouldn’t be the same anymore. And she was terrified of seeing her own face reflected, not wanting to know who she’d find there.  Was it cowardice? To not want to be seen as frail.

Ah… the discrepancy had only grown bigger. With halting movements she curled in on herself, leaning forward so that her face was submerged. Dull pangs of pain rang out in her chest the oxygen slowly went out, drowning out her thoughts. She wished she could compress this ache, could grab it with her two hands and press it to her chest so it could stay close and private with her. She wanted to bury the memory of Tamlen deep under her skin so darkspawn couldn’t get it. She wanted to wring the neck of any feeling that could make her this brittle again. So swallow it down.

“There was a hunter in my clan” she spoke when she pulled back, sluggishly blinking away the water running into her eyes, “who went to investigate some elven ruins he’d come across, without telling the keeper about it. In the end he contracted the taint and never returned to us.” She began scrubbing away at her skin, noting that she couldn’t get the soil out from under her nails even as everything else washed off. “So now he asked me to kill him.”

“Death was a mercy for him” Zevran’s voice sounded distant. “Though I suppose somebody you know asking you to kill them is not particularly pleasant.”

“I don’t feel guilty” she replied, trying to get up again, “since he was in essence already dead. What he was asking for was a burial, so I gave him one. …I overreacted, a little.”

By the shore, her companion had crouched down and was splashing a bit of water in his face. A long night for him too. “Oh, I’ve seen people do worse. No knives were pulled on me, for one, which has happened. But of course, that time I’d have been the one who did the killing” he said cheerfully with a shrug of his shoulder, moving aside a bit for her as she got back on land.

The bath hadn’t done her physical condition any favors, shivering rather than shaking now. Patiently Zevran helped her put her garments back on even if they undid some of the good of the bath. Her armor was left in the bushes. Somebody could come pick it up for her while she rested. And her sword and shield? None of them could go there. It was a burial site now. Zevran only laughed. Tomorrow was another day. Who was going to steal her things? The shriek Sten nearly cleaved in half? She knew what he was doing, clumsy in this matter as she herself was. Gratitude and shame swelled in her chest in equal measures.

Zevran shouldered her once more as they continued onwards. Nature around them was beginning to wake and even as the fog in her mind had grown heavier and her eyes unfocused, she could make out the camp up ahead. With every step, Serket took on more of her own weight while Isun already charged ahead.  

“Don’t treat me differently now. Please don’t treat me differently, not you” she mumbled, her hand still on his shoulder.

Zevran didn’t reply right away. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The call of an owl rung out through the quiet of the night.    

[theaologies]

We’ll Continue (to be disappointed) [fic]

Fandom: Dragon Age Ship: Solavellan (implied) Rating: Gen Summary: Charter delivers some news Wordcount: ~1700 Notes: I haven’t written anything in... so long... god. A drabble, some character introspection mostly Read on Ao3

HEAVY SPOILERS for TEVINTER NIGHTS

“Is that all?” Cassandra asks, dropping the bundle of papers that has occupied her hands for the past hour or so on the small, stained wood table their little group stands around.

The basement they find themselves gathered in this time is small and damp, the scent of fish drifting in from the port outside mixing none too sweetly with old ale that has spilled through the floorboards of the tavern above. The cramped space barely fits the four women with their table, which tilts precariously whenever something heavier than a dagger is placed upon it, and Leliana has joked more than once that if Cullen had joined them he and his pauldrons would have had to play door for them.

But this isn't a matter to disturb Cullen with. Not while he's enjoying his retirement and time with his family.

No, this little party is made up only of those absolutely necessary; Cassandra, Leliana, Lavellan, and Charter.

Charter, who is the one who retrieved this information for them.

The Elven woman nods as she watches Cassandra drop her notes, folding her arms across her chest. “That is all, yes. And since I was the only one spared we won't have to concern ourselves with cleaning up loose ends.”

Cassandra sighs, frustration evident in her voice. “I suppose you're right.” She nods, rubbing at her chin, “though I admit my confusion at your survival- he'd kill all those others in attendance, yet not you? Just because you... asked?”

“I had done nothing to wrong him,” Charter tells her, leaning over to gather the papers up once more. “The others had lied or slandered him or posed some kind of risk. I merely sought out information- and it was information he was willing to share.”

“He doesn't want to kill Elves,” Lavellan supplies, finally speaking up for the first time since their meeting began, “he will if he absolutely must, but Solas is... trying not to kill other Elves. He's still trying to recruit them into his army.” She glances up at the other Elf, violet eyes both hard and exhausted at the same time, “you said it yourself- he asked you to join. And it probably would have looked worse for him had you not returned.”

“He wants us to know he can be anywhere at anytime,” Leliana says, “even though we've officially disbanded he knows we're still working against him- he wants us to know just how big of a threat he, personally, is to us. Any of us. All of us.” The Divine, cloaked in a simple disguise, spreads a hand out over the small map of Tevinter tacked down on the table, looking over it dutifully. “We'll have to be more careful from now on- well, even more so than we have been.” She sighs, a frown etched across her lips, “I'm afraid our infrequent meetings will have to become... even more infrequent. And those of us who are traveling will have to do more to cover our tracks. It will be difficult but we can't afford to get lazy now- or ever.” Nimble fingers pluck at the tacks, carefully rolling the map back up before depositing it in a tiny canister. As she straightens she eyes both Charter and Lavellan, “I'm sorry to say, but that means being more careful around other Elves, as well- if he'd go so far as to attempt to recruit a known spymaster-”

“No, you're right,” Lavellan agrees quickly, though she doesn't meet her eye, “anyone could be one of his agents, at this point. There's no telling. Caution must be taken, especially with those Elves coming out of Tevinter.”

Leliana gives a single nod, seemingly pleased with her understanding. “Yes, exactly. We cannot, at the moment, take any unnecessary risks. Now-” her eyes sweep over the other women as she tugs at the hood of her cloak, ensuring her hair is completely covered, “I'm afraid I must take my leave. Cassandra and I must be present later tonight at the Viscount's banquet- there had to be some excuse for use to travel all the way to Kirkwall, after all.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise from the space by the door as she dons her own cloak. “Politics.”

“Now, now, Cassandra,” Leliana chides playfully, a smirk replacing her serious expression, “I'm sure Varric won't make it too unbearable for you. Perhaps our dear friend will even give you the next copy of his book.”

The dark haired woman rolls her eyes, turning toward the door quickly to hide the blush that creeps its way up her neck.

“Charter, if you wouldn't mind passing this information to Harding when you have the chance?” Leliana requests, “she'll need to know the details of this meeting in depth and what to keep an eye out for in the future.”

“Of course, My Lady,” Charter agrees, tucking the papers away into a leather pouch hidden inside her vest, “I will get this to her as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Leliana says, then turns to Lavellan, “I'm sorry you can't join us tonight,” she tells her sympathetically, “If there were a way-”

But Lavellan just lifts her hand to stop her. “It's fine,” she says, “I spent some time with Varric yesterday- we caught up then. Had lunch. It's no big deal.” She shrugs. “Besides, I'm to start trek toward the Arlathan Forest early tomorrow. Varric gave me information to catch up with one of his and Hawke's friends who's been working on dismantling the slave trade there. Thought I might be some help.”

Leliana doesn't miss the way she fidgets with the hem of her sleeve, though; fingers tugging at the fabric to try to hide the dragonbone contraption Dagna made to replace her missing arm. “You had said before,” the redhead starts carefully, “that you were considering stopping by Wycome on your way. Do you still-”

“I might,” she cuts her off again, still not looking her in the eye, “I haven't decided yet. I know reports have said that some of my Clan might still be out there- but-” she sighs, rolling her shoulders to try to stave off the shudder that threatens to run through her, “I just don't think it would matter if I went back. I doubt they'd want me back, after everything. If they even recognized me at all.”

Cassandra turns back to look at the Elven woman, a soft pity in her eyes, “Inqui-”

“Don't,” Lavellan says quickly, sharply, then deflates, letting the sudden anger rush out of her. “I'm not the Inquisitor anymore, Cassandra,” she tells her with a wavering smile, “let's not pretend I still am.”

The other woman frowns, though instead of her usual frustration it's one of sympathy. “Yes, of course.” She agrees softly, “I- just know- if there's anything you need-”

Lavellan nods, looking up at the human women, a fake smile plastered across her face. “I know, and thank you. But I'm fine. I'll be fine. Truly.”

There's a pause. Lavellan returns to her subconscious fidgeting. Leliana chooses not to say anything of it. “Very well,” The Divine relents, moving to join Cassandra at the door. “We'll be seeing you, then. Just be sure to keep in touch, wherever it is you end up. I've never met Fenris personally but I know he can be... a bit touchy, as Varric's said. And perhaps... don't mention your mage sympathies.” She then looks over toward Charter, giving her associate a nod. “And you know where your duties take you next?”

“Of course, My Lady. I will continue to inform you of any developments in the Imperium.”

“Thank you. Walk in the Maker's Light, both of you.” She tells them, and then follows Cassandra out the door, the dark haired woman giving a nod in farewell to both of them.

The door shuts with a click, leaving the two Elves alone together.

An awkward silence blankets the room as they wait until they are clear to leave. Lavellan has no idea if Charter is one for small talk- they never were more than acquaintances during their time with the Inquisition- but where Lavellan used to be, she's found she hasn't had the spirit to summon the casual lightheartedness that had been so central to her demeanor all her life.

At least not for the past year and a half.

So she lets the silence be. For about an hour the two Elven women simply sit in silence; Lavellan finding a discarded crate and fiddling with the more mechanical components of her arm while Charter perches on the table itself, pouring over a small, well worn notebook. Once, Lavellan briefly catches her sleeve in a joint and curses under her breath, waving Charter off when she looks up in question. It proves to be the extent of their interaction.

At least, until right before Lavellan rises to leave.

“Wait,” Charter stops her, just as she goes to tug her hood over her head. A scarred brow quirks in the spy's direction, watching as she tears a leaf of paper from the little notebook. She looks at it for a brief moment, as though second guessing herself, before holding it out for Lavellan to take. “I don't know that Leliana would... approve of me giving you this information,” she says as the other woman carefully takes it from her, “but for him to have said it...” she hums softly, tucking away the notebook, “he allowed me my life. Delivering it to you- it's a debt paid.”

Lavellan wills her hand not to shake as she looks down at the parchment, a sudden weakness trembling in the pit of her stomach.

“When you report back to the Inquisitor... Say that I am sorry.”

“For all that it's worth,” Charter continues, moving to stand, “it did sound like he meant it.”

There's the silence once again as Lavellan's eyes stayed glued to the page, that weakness trying to decide whether to manifest itself as sadness or anger. It's such a shock, for him to address anything directly towards her after all this time, that when if finally hits her throat it culminates as neither- a tiny, humorless chuckle escapes her mouth instead. “A teahouse.” Is all she can bring herself to say; just a whisper of the word, with an almost unwilling fondness trapped behind her teeth.

Charter smiles- just a little, with just a hint of pity- and lightly claps Lavellan on the shoulder as she slips past her and out the door, disappearing into the quickly setting sun.

[herald-divine-hell]

A Desiring Flower

Request:  NSWF prompt: F!Reader getting bent over the wartable and fucked with a strap on by Leliana. I need that powerful woman to feel even more powerful as she takes me after spending most the day teasing me

A/N: I’m still getting used to writing smut, so I apologize if this isn’t all that you asked for. I did try my best with what limited knowledge I have. Hopefully, as I practice more of writing smut, I can get better.

-

Leliana’s smirk was insatiable, and you glared hard at your spymaster, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth with a hard nibble. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” asked the Inquisitor, frowning.

“What ever do you mean, Your Worship?” The tapping finger’s arm rested on her other, and you can see, though hazy, she carried a small item in your hand - the conductor of this game.

It had been a day of torture for you. Pleasure stroke and bubbled at your naval, a fire that was inextinguishable and so small that it could only been seen as a flame. You leaned against the war table, hands pressed flat against the map-covered surface. A soft buzz whispered in your ears, like a sweet and cruel song that made your hands jittery and your breathing heavy. 

You pressed your thighs together, seeking some form of friction that could rub away at this heat. The pleasure that had weakly glimmered for most of the day, blossomed strongly and suddenly, and you stiffed a cry of pleasure with another nibble of your lip. Pleasure rushed like a wave through your mind, coursing. “Leliana.”

Dipping her hip a bit to the side, Leliana rested her weight on a leg, tilting her head. “Yes, my lady?” You could hear the amused tone fluttering in her accented voice, a chuckle bubbling from her chest. The undisguised pleasure before the sight before her mixed with the indifference of the Spymaster - pleasure and duty mixing as one, at the expense of yourself.

And you did not know if you should be angered or not. 

“Leliana.” You could feel the warmth beating between your legs, swarming strongly at your stomach. In the morning, it had been merely a tingle, but after hours of feeling the rune’s vibration against your clit, you felt ready to top pal over. Maker, I think even Cullen noticed. 

Your Commander of the Inquisition had spent most of the war meeting glancing away to the great doors behind you, never meeting your flustered gaze, and shifting from one foot to the other. Josephine had not fare any better, deciding that her clipboard was far more fascinating to anything that Leliana could say. You did not even try to speak during the meeting, only focusing on the pleasure that puddled at your naval and burned in the pit of your stomach.

But now, your other advisors had fled, muttering incoherent reasoning for their departure, and left you and amused spymaster alone. It had been just a silly suggestion that Leliana had brought up one night while you and her cuddled in the quietness of your bedchambers - a suggestion that you were slowly regret accepting. 

“Bend over.”

You threw your head back, eyes widen as you stared at Leliana’s suddenly expressionless features. The buzzing lessen, and your legs found some strength, stabilizing with the support of the large wooden table. But the heat still throbbed between your legs, and you could feel the slickness against your thighs. “Pardon?”

Leliana sauntered around the table, and her voice was hard and even-toned. “Bend over.” Steely, cool blue eyes fixed on you, wandering over your figure. “And pull down your breeches.”

Your fingers trembled as you unlaced the ties of your breeches. You saw as Leliana drifted away from the corner of your eyes, and you heard something rumble and shift behind you. You pushed down breeches and small clothes, and slipped the drenched rune out of you. Blushing heatedly, you could not help but stare. The soft, amber tendrils bent into hard, straight, and rigid lines, framing a softly flickering circle in the center. It still buzzed, but soft and weakly. 

Placing the toy on top of a piece of unused parchment, you bent over the war table. The cool and brittle golden map contrasted against the heat of your blushing cheeks, and you shifted your hips fro and back, anticipation building and mixing with the desire in your loins.  

Leliana’s hands wondered over your clothed back, and you shivered as her bare thumbs drew hard circles into your shoulder, sighing. For a moment, the arousal became secondary, pushed deep away from your mind. A sigh escaped your lips and your eyes fluttered close. 

Gentle pressure popped tighten muscles, and you could feel yourself become light and soft - airy, even. 

But it was soon dashed away with Leliana’s removal of her hands. You heard the rumbling of chain mail falling upon stone, echoing softly in your ears. Tugging on your bottom lip, your face flushed brighter. 

You felt the toy against your glistening folds. Your tugging became harder, more insistent as the mere graze of it sent a shiver up your spine. Balling your hands into fist, you moaned softly as Leliana slid the tip up and down, pressing little into you before pulling out. 

“Leliana, please. Stop teasing me.” Your whimpering plea seemed to echo in the near-empty war room. 

You heard her chuckle, like some soft echo in an empty valley, and a hand rested on your hips, fingers tightening and pressing hard and secure against flesh. 

Gasping, a low moan tumbled out of your mouth, as your folds spread for Leliana’s slow thrust. The hand that had been spent securing the stability of the toy rested on your shoulder, steadying you with a firmness that sent another shiver through your body.

When Leliana was fully sheathed inside you, flushed against your ass and thighs, she paused and allowed you to get used to the sudden fullness. You felt the burning of your cheeks erupt even further as your walls pulsed and tightened around the toy. 

Then, you felt empty as Leliana slowly departed. But only for a few moments until, with a swift and sharp thrust, the strap-on speared through your glistening folds and warm walls. A heavy moan filled the chambers, before being replaced with another as Leliana began a steady pace of thrusting in and out of you. She was silent, all expect with a few low grunts.

Like with everything with Leliana, it was a game. For a few brief moments, her thrusts came hard and swift, summoning moans and gasps and whimpers that you never knew you could make. Pleasure twirled in your stomach, spreading thickly throughout your body, making your mind numb and hazy. The Spymaster rolled her hips against you, before departing and than slamming once more. You bounced against the surface of the war table, clothed-covered, harden nipples grazing over the map as you balled your hands into fists with the parchment. 

Then other times, Leliana would slow herself, pacing almost loving into you. Dimly, you realized the power behind Leliana, the strength and firmness of her hands that never wavered from keeping you steady and secure, even if you bounced a little. Your mind was captivated, focusing on the soft grunts and low moans that came from behind you. The thought of a smirking Leliana watching as your ass bounces against her hips sent a blush to your cheeks and even louder moan into the warm air.

You gasped when you felt the flat of her thumb graze over your clit, her arm wrapping around your waist as the Spymaster pressed her front against her back. She was shirtless, you thought faintly. Her harden nipples pressed against your back, eliciting more fuel to your arousal. The small nub of your clit shot electricity throughout your body, mangling with the already pulsing pleasure from before.

Leliana’s name fell upon your lips over and over again, your brows furrowed together as you concentrated on everything that was Leliana: her scent, the feeling of her breasts against your back, the hard thrusts of her hips. 

“You’re mine,” Leliana growled in your ear. “Tu es à moi.”

You shuddered as your orgasm peaked. Quivering against the war table, your wetness coating the shaft of the toy, puffs and whimpers falling from your lips. Tears streaked your cheeks warmly. “Maker...”

You felt empty, all of the sudden, and then hands found your sides, and you were flipped over, back pressed against the parchment. 

Leliana was smirking, lining up up once more. Sliding the drenched tip up and down your slit, another soft moan weakly leaving your lips, Leliana said, “Who said we were done?”

She gave you no time to answer as she pushed passed your drenched folds once more, grabbing your wrists with a hand and throwing them above your head. Her eyes were darken with lust, as chilled, hungry, and predatory like a wolf.

Maker, you hoped Josephine had locked the door on her way out. 

[reveriesramblings-blog]

Path Of The Arrow

                               A Lavellan And Harding Love Story

    A fanfiction depicting a personal headcanon of my Lavellan playthrough in the Dragon Age:Inqusition franchise. The Inquisitor struggles to integrate into a new life, but finds a familiar comfort in new friends and a possible new love. As he becomes the new shining face of Thedas, he learns that there is more to life than running away...

  This will be a series I’ll be updating every Saturday or so. Of course, I do not own the rights to the Dragon Age or the characters! This is purely for entertainment purposes. Some quotes/ dialogue were taken from the game.

                                                  Credits

A quick thanks to Dragon Age Wiki for a guide on elven cipher! FenxShiral for  reference.                                                WARNINGS    Please note that this series is 18+ for adult language and themes! Further warnings include PTSD, depression, violence, blood, possible gore, some sexual content, death, etc. Please message me privately if you have any other concerns.

Just a final note: I’m new to tumblr, so please have mercy while I learn the proper tag/edit system! I edit to the best of my ability and I’m here to share my imagination as well as improve my creative writing abilities.

                                                   Enjoy!

Elven translations: 

Lethallen (pl) - one who is familiar; usually a friendly title given from one elf to another. Similar to kin.

Shemlen/shems - quicklings; unfavorable name for humans

Mala suledin nadas - You shall endure

Falon'Din enasal enaste - An elven prayer for the dead

Vhenan -Heart; term of endearment

Ma vhenan - my heart; my love

Ir abelas - I'm sorry

Ma melava halani - you helped me

Ir tel'him - I'm me again

Ma serannas - thank you

                                                                                Chapter 1: Severed Roots

    A herd of Halla; pounding hooves against the lush earth of the Planasene Forest floor, in which he was never allowed to be in. The echo of these sacred beasts swirled around Larkin’s head as a memory, tucking the past back into a far corner in his mind. Once he was a respected hunter among his clan, providing food to ensure the survival of his Lethallen; his kin. Now, he was about to embark on a new path with a new name: The Herald of Andraste, they called him. The one who fell out of The Fade and was sent by Andraste herself to close The Breach that wounded the sky. 

“What a large burden to carry, and it’s only gonna get heavier.” Varric pitied him in private when they had a moment to breathe. Privacy was a luxury now that everyone and everything demanded his attention: “Your Worship, please look over these marching orders?” this, “Herald, I need your response to the Chantry by the end of the daylight,” that. He knew nothing of politics and pleasantries and suddenly he was the face of a controversial organization as well as an entire religion that he did not want. Few perks there were so far, but one of them included the few moments he could spend in playful banter with the Dwarf  gave him some sense of relief. A new world and a new life among the shemlens -- not one he would have chosen for himself. The elf was perfectly content running from them in The Free Marches as it were; nothing could have prepared him for so many concentrated in one area. They smelled weird, the food was strange, but there was no denying the honest hospitality. Larkin couldn’t help but wonder though: would it be different if he weren’t their so - called martyr? Would he be exploited and shunned as all other Dalish were in human company?

“Mala suledin nadas…” he uttered under his breath as his eyes searched the aching mark on his hand, possibly for more answers. He lifted the glowing scar to the sky, replicating the moment he first closed a rift as if it would give him some profound knowledge on how to close The Breach; but alas, there were no voices in his mind. 

Another chimed into his ears instead, “Master Lavellan” a familiar voice requested his attention. What else was new? The Herald had half a mind to turn toward the speaker in annoyance, but took a moment to collect himself. Of course it was Cassandra who came and interrupted his much needed quiet time. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat but made no hesitation in addressing the task at hand; he hadn’t known her for long but he could tell that this was going to become a regular occurrence -- he should’ve just accepted it then and there. “My apologies on the sudden...intrusion…” She wasn’t really sorry, “Your presence is needed in the council, my Lord. Leliana and Cullen have a few suggestions on how to get things moving. We need to head into the Hinterlands as soon as possible to seek out Mother Giselle and ask for her aid. I have come to escort you.” 

With a deep sigh, the Herald stood up from the stone fencing and turned to her with a reluctant nod “I suppose I can’t just sit this one out?” 

Cassandra gave him a judgmental squint but held her tongue from expressing her true thoughts on his sarcasm. “Need I remind you of what’s at stake here?” She paused and her mood seemed to shift, "I understand that you didn’t ask for any of this, but now that you’re here...you’re our only option for the time being. I can’t promise that it will be easy, but I can promise that you won’t be alone in this…” her voice trailed at the end into a softer note as if she was trying her best to express compassion or something of the sort. “I understand, Cassandra, and I appreciate your willingness to uphold your duty.” Silence fell between them. It wasn’t meant to sound curt, nevertheless, the words cut and he could see that it slightly bothered her. He pursed his lips together in regret “I didn’t mean for that to--” “Let’s just...get this over with.” The Seeker turned to leave and head toward the Chantry but stopped for a moment to turn and look at him with a small smirk, waiting for him to follow.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The briefing appeared to be simple enough: ask for The Revered Mother’s assistance and look for opportunities to establish the Inquisition’s presence. Unbeknownst to any of them, the Hinterlands was ass-deep in chaos and it would be far from easy. The mages and templars were practically at war, putting all the refugees nearby in danger. People were starving, cold, dying and nature was being destroyed by seemingly random fires. Lowly bandits took advantage of the conditions and began to claim passages, making it harder for Inquisition soldiers to do their job. To top it all off, demons were crawling about from opened rifts; just more reasons to need a savior. Larkin surveyed the crossroads from the hilltop with dread in the pit of his stomach. The air carried a slight chill through his chestnut hair and smelled of pine, which reminded him of home. Bittersweet memories cut short by the sight of humans cutting each other down...like always. How the fuck was all of this happening so fast? He gripped his stomach and swallowed hard, stepping down from a tall rock that overlooked the plains. Varric caught a glimpse of the elf’s anxiety, offering an awkward grimace; he knew he and the Inquisitor were feeling the same sense of fuck this. If it were that easy to walk away, Varric wouldn’t be far behind him. The Herald stepped into camp among all the hustle and bustle of recruits trying to multitask between gathering supplies and an array of other important things. All he could hear was the babbling of side conversations and metal clanking from swords and arms being forged and repaired. Larkin’s attention was pulled left and right again the minute he arrived, until Cassandra rescued him by taking his arm and pulling him aside. Varric and Solas accompanied them as well to take a breather. “There’s something that needs your attention --” she began and was readily cut off by Varric. 

“Give him a minute, Seeker...He just got here.” He threw his hands up in frustration with her too urgent attitude. “Wouldn’t it be wise to let the one person that can actually fix all this shit take a small break? You know -- Just so we don’t break him before it starts getting tough?” Solas butted in with his two cents. “Ideal, not wise, Varric.” 

“Thanks, Chuckles.” The dwarf shook his head “The Herald of Andraste succumbing to a nap every once in a while? Perish the thought…” Larkin attempted to joke. At least Varric was amused. "What? Just trying to ease the tension a little. I’ll be fine…we’ll be fine.”

“Your Worship?” a soft feminine voice called to the group, singling them out from the rest of the camp. A Dwarven female approached them with a friendly and professional air about her. Her soft-looking red hair was tied up and out of her face; pale skin, but her cheeks were no stranger to the sun. Freckles decorated her face, giving her a rather youthful appearance despite the scar running down the left side of her cheek. 

“Scout Harding, at your service.” She paused for a moment to give Larkin a good look-over. He was tall, but that was mostly because she was a dwarf of course. Here he was: Andraste’s chosen in the flesh; he looked even more noble than the stories portrayed him to be. The view wasn’t so bad either. If her eyes could’ve opened any wider they would. 

“Pleased to meet you” he simply said, unsure of how he should address her just yet.

“Wow” she awed, he breath taken from her, “I can’t believe it’s really you. I’ve heard the stories; you should know how grateful everyone is for what you’re doing.” A small, toothy smirk appeared on Larkin’s face “I’m starting to worry about all these stories everyone’s been hearing.” This comment brought a chime of laughter from the scout, causing her to clear her throat once she realized that it might come across as inappropriate. “ Well, they only say you’re the last great hope of Thedas.” She grimaced. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that… “Oh, great.” he pursed his lips.

“Aaaanyway, you already have your briefing, I should let you get to work.” She handed Larkin a scroll tied with twine “A map.” she smiled softly but with an awkward note. “Maker guide you.” 

Harding wandered off to attend to other matters; a recruit already scrambling after her with questions. She left a small smile on Larkin’s face, his eyes refused to separate from her as he held the map limply in his hand. It wasn't until he felt eyes on him that he looked to his companions and then turned to make his way out of the camp. "Right," he cleared his throat "to work then." All four of them marched away from the camp, following the sounds of distant fighting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Falon’Din enasal enaste…” Larkin whispered slightly out of breath over the corpse of an elven mage. He was careful to keep his first language out of earshot as a subconscious reflex. However it didn’t escape Solas’s impeccable hearing; the elven prayer for the dead caused him to eye the Herald curiously and smirk snarkily. Larkin tried to ignore the eyes on him and examined the blood on his gloves and felt slightly dizzy. He must’ve lost his footing at some point because the next thing he knew, he was on the ground, facing the sky above him. He felt hands gripping him tightly; everything was spinning and then what was a clear day turned into inky darkness.  A gentle hand pressed against Larkin’s cheek and his eyes slowly opened to see a blurry but familiar figure above him. The sound of trees swaying in the breeze; birds chirping in the early morning sun. “Vhenan...” the words were clear, but the voice was obscured and almost unrecognizable, but he didn’t need to know. He could feel who the voice belonged to by the nature of his touch. Larkin’s eyes squinted as the sun’s light bore into the spectre and he placed his own hand on top of the one cupping his cheek. “Ma Vhenan” Larkin repeated, his voice barely audible. “Ir abelas..” “Ma melava halani...Ir tel’him...ma serannas…” The voice began to fade. 

Larkin began to squirm in his fur lined bedroll, feverishly chanting elven over and over until his eyes shot open and he woke in a cold sweat. The hand he gripped in his dream was not a past lover, but belonged to a healer instead. She stared down at him, frozen in place as she did not dare to try and pry her hand free, afraid he might lose it even more. Within just a moment more she caught a grip and placed her free hand on his other cheek, smiling gently. “Your Worship, please, rest easy. Everything’s going to be alright. You’re safe in your tent.” her Orlesian accent was thick. The Chantry sister placed a cold rag on the elf’s forehead, hushing him gently. “Sleep. I will inform your companions that you have the day off.” He didn’t pay much attention to when the sister left his tent, he was more focused in undressing as soon as possible --his clothes were drenched in sweat. As promised, no one entered his tent for the remainder of the day, but rest would not come easily to him. He gently rolled over to his side and out of bed, standing on his bare feet in one motion. Larkin opened the flap of the tent door, letting the cool air of the night hit his face as he paused to take a deep breath. Nice and cool. He kept his pants on and wore a loose tunic to spare the camp of an accidental nude elf sighting; they weren’t that friendly yet. The corner of his eye caught the toe of one of his boots, choosing to leave those behind. His feet deserved to be free again, and it was so worth it. The moment the pads of his toes felt the grass, he let out a relieved groan, closing his eyes as he flexed his feet to caress the ground. Before anyone could see him, he took off into the nearby trees, running as fast as he could to pick up the wind and feel it against his lithe frame, only stopping when he was finally out of breath. His short frolicking led him back to the overlook where he first stopped when they arrived in the Hinterlands. Just slightly tired, he sat down and let his feet dangle over the edge of the cliff and looked up at the face of the full moon that lit up the night. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Larkin practically whipped his head around feeling slightly defensive, his shoulders tensed, but dropped again when she stepped more into the light. 

“Scout Harding?” Larkin confirmed softly and released a small amount of breath.

“You sound surprised.” She smirked but then looked a little concerned as her voice wavered slightly. “What are you doing out here anyway, aren’t you supposed to be resting? Healer’s orders you know…” Harding took a seat beside him with respectable space in between them. Her concern brought a soft grin to his face “Aren’t you supposed to be resting yourself? Thanks for the concern but I feel fine.” He noticed she was dressed casually, too. “You got me.” she giggled awkwardly and shifted slightly in her seat. “I was hoping you’d be out here, actually. Oh Maker, that came out strange...I mean, I wasn’t stalking you or anything like that. I just...wanted to apologize for earlier.” She brought a finger up to scratch the side of her cheek.

“Oh?” The Herald’s interest was piqued. She held his attention now. “Apologize, Whatever for?” “Oh you know,” she began “You’re only the last great hope of Thedas…” she bit her lip in regret “The last thing I wanted to do was cause you more anxiety about the situation. I know you have a lot on your plate.” “Hm…” he hummed, looking up at the moon and stayed silent on purpose, just to tease her.

"Oh, pants!" She exclaimed in frustration "Please just accept the apology!"

"Pants?" He cocked a brow and couldn't help but laugh. "I've never heard that one before!" When calm, which wasn't for a good long moment, he sighed and ended the exhale with a small chuckle. "I accept. Though, I was never offended either. Just for the record." He smiled softly at her.

Perhaps Harding focused on his lips a little too hard. The dimples that pressed into his cheeks revealed an endearing innocence in him that was rarely found in a leader. Without a moment longer she stood up on her feet.

"I should head back. Wouldn't want to miss my beauty sleep and all."

"You don't need it." Larkin turned to look at her, the corner of his mouth curling softly.

They exchanged tender looks under the stars for what seemed like an eternity.

"Good night, your Worship." Harding left him with a smile and vanished into the trees.

"I'll see you in my dreams." he said to himself now that she was gone. His eyes looked back at the moon, wondering if it felt as lonely as he did at night. 

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 14: Somewhat Biased

Making decisions that will affect thousands is hard. Having people oppose you every step of the way is even harder. It doesn’t take much for someone to crack under that sort of pressure.

Thankfully, Dorian’s there to provide said someone with some much needed comfort. <3

Read here or on AO3!

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

Skyhold’s yard was buzzing with activity. Ascending the stairs to the dais, Tristan felt every step heavier than the last as a wave of indistinct susurrus washed over him. Cullen, Leliana and Josephine were already there, waiting for him. The bright sun reflected on Cullen’s armour and on Josephine’s golden neckpiece, so much so that they were almost blinding. Hoping that he wasn’t squinting too much, he climbed the last few steps and stood tall between them, his back as straight as he could make it.

His eyes drifted over the tightly packed, indistinguishable crowd below. They were all watching him, expectancy and curiosity gleaming in their eyes. The murmurs and whispers gradually died as all faces turned to stare at him.

The parchment in his hands felt heavy and stiff. His speech had been carefully crafted, and he had obsessively rehearsed it in front of the mirror in his quarters for days since returning from the Hinterlands, but now it was different. He felt like even if he tried to speak, none of the words he had prepared would come. He fought the urge to turn around on his heels and run back to his quarters.

Nowhere to go now. A deep breath, and in he went.

They all listened silently as he talked about the Inquisition’s work, and praised them all for their service and their bravery. A mention for those who had fallen in Haven, and a vague promise that their deaths would not be in vain in the battle against Corypheus. A few heads nodded mournfully.

Another breath and a pause to let his words linger. Thedas was waiting to hear about the future of the rebel mages. The Inquisition, Tristan declared, had made its full support of mages across Thedas known. “Now is the time for change,” he said, and his voice rang harsh and wooden in his ears. “Now is the time to address the issues that led us here in the first place.”

Several gasps disrupted the silence when Tristan openly denounced the rule of the Chantry over mages in general, and the rebel mages in particular. New Circles would be founded for the rebel mages that had allied themselves with the Inquisition, and would become places of knowledge and research for mages, overseen by mages. The members of the Circles would be able to research and hone their skills safely, and after their mandatory years of attendance had been fulfilled, they would be free to stay there or lead normal lives in the outside world.

Ignoring the horrified expressions of the Chantry sisters in the crowd, Tristan pressed on, hardly pausing to take a breath.

The Rite of Tranquility, as well as Harrowings, would never be performed in Skyhold or the Circles founded by the Inquisition. Both flawed solutions for problems that were barely understood even by mages today.

"A mage will not become immune to demons by being tossed in the Fade amidst demons, the same as one would not become an expert fighter by being thrown, barely armed, in a pit of wolves. Hundreds, if not thousands of mages have been lost that way, when they didn't have to. This is our chance to find a better answer to the issue of possession, if we all work together."

Cheers and claps amidst confused glances erupted from the crowd.

Tilly’s face flashed in his mind. He steeled himself before he carried on.

“Fraternisation and family visits will be allowed, as in any other school or university. Magical research will be encouraged and supported, and emphasis will be given to the study and practice of practical and defensive magic, rather than offensive magic. No more will mages be treated like devils, prisoners or weapons of war. Magic is in service of the people of Thedas, not against them.”

More cheers sounded from below. A reluctant voice emerged after the roar from the crowd had quietened. “What will happen with the Templars?”

Tristan’s brows were furrowed as he searched for the man in the crowd that had spoken. His blood sizzled just underneath his skin, but when he spoke his voice was thankfully level. “The future of the Templar Order is still under consideration. The Order and the Chantry will have to answer for their many abuses of power and cases of misconduct against mages and researchers, once the battle against Corypheus is won. For the moment, we must all band together and fight against the common enemy with all of our might.”

When he prepared his speech, he knew that it would not please everyone. The reforms he was proposing were the most drastic that had been undertaken in hundreds of years. The yard erupted in cheers, gasps of surprise and fierce arguments. The Chantrics and the Templars were watching him with narrowed eyes, while mages were either praising his name or arguing amongst themselves. The nobles and dignitaries that had arrived to hear his speech were watching the chaos around them, some of them clinically and dispassionately, while others seemed altogether horrified.

It hardly mattered. What was done, was done. He gazed at the buzzing crowd before him, a vast emptiness spreading inside him. He had been thinking about this matter for weeks, months, entire years. He had tried, time and time again, to imagine what it would be like to play a part in the shaping of the mages' future. And now that it was done, he felt… hollow.

None of what he did would ever bring her back. But he could at least try to make sure that no one else had the same fate she did. Not if he could help it.

Clenching his jaw, Tristan ascended the steps to the throne room, his advisors at his heels.

“Mentioning the Chantry and the Templars may not have been the wisest decision, Inquisitor,” Cullen said in a low voice, falling into step alongside him. “We still need all the support we can get from them.”

Tristan sniffed audibly, not even looking in the Commander’s direction. “I could hardly have evaded a question like that, Cullen. Besides, the Chantry would be displeased no matter what I said. It seems to be their speciality.” He pressed on towards the end of the room, not looking behind him, to avoid any further talk. His heart was still pumping from talking in front of so many people, and he wasn’t certain he would be able to keep his composure if another one of his advisors confronted him.

The feast that followed was a quiet and humble one, organised by Ambassador Josephine for the high ranking members of the Inquisition and the nobles that had attended the speech. Tristan’s stomach was growling by the time the hors d’oeuvres were served. He had been too nervous to eat anything before the speech, so now he downed two spicy cakes one after the other, sighing in relief. He had managed to slip away from all those that were looking for him to congratulating him on his declarations, and had carefully hidden himself in a quiet corner behind a large stone column, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“There he is! The man of the hour. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Since their trip to Redcliffe, he and Dorian had somewhat returned to their usual companionable banter. Some awkwardness still lingered, but Tristan was glad that he could at least speak to him as they used to.

He turned to face him, a half smile already widening his lips. “And here I thought that hiding away was my strong suit. It appears my stealth skills have gotten a bit rusty.”

“So it seems. All this time under the spotlight has grown on you, I wager,” Dorian said, smiling behind the rim of his wine cup. “Skyhold’s buzzing, within and without. Soon the news will spread all over Thedas. I have to admit, you do know how to cause a stir.”

“I’ve learnt from the very best.”

Dorian laughed heartily, his arm resting on his waist. He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to reply with a witty jab of his own, when heavy bootsteps sounded behind them. “Here comes trouble,” he murmured, taking a step back.

Cassandra stepped between them, eyes blazing. “Inquisitor,” she said. “May I speak with you?”

Tristan straightened up, preparing himself for yet another tirade. “Of course, Cassandra. What is it?”

She eyed Dorian behind her back, who took another step back and turned the other way, sipping on his wine casually, as if oblivious to her rage. “I wish to talk to you about… your proclamations.”

Tristan nodded, with some reserve.

Cassandra took a short breath, glancing at her boots before fixing her dark eyes on his. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

Her bluntness took Tristan aback. She had said the words so quietly, it did not even sound as if she was mad, but Tristan knew she was boiling with anger. He crossed his arms before his chest and looked at her coolly. “I know very well what I’ve done. I’ve given this a lot of thought, Seeker. I believe it’s the best way forward.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared. “By giving the mages full authority? Making the Chantry and the Templars look like they were solely responsible for everything that happened? Is that your idea of the best way forward?”

Tristan bristled at her curt tone. “If the Chantry and the Templars had not been abusing mages for centuries and painting them as the evil ones, the war itself would not have happened in the first place. The Chantry and their propaganda is to blame here. I’ll make sure they stay as far away from the mages as possible.” His voice was low and determined as he uttered the last words. If he so much as raised it a little, he was afraid he might start yelling and never stop.

Cassandra huffed in annoyance, her scowl deepening. “Abolishing the circles will only bring about chaos. People are still wary of mages. They don't even know how to govern themselves!”

“They don't know because the Chantry never let them.”

“And for good reason! Don't you know how dangerous a mage can be when let loose?”

“Almost as dangerous as a Templar or a Seeker when let loose,” he hissed, his voice dripping with vehemence.

Cassandra took a step back as if she had been hit in the stomach. Her eyes were wide as saucers when she looked at him. Her astonishment didn’t last long. Soon, she was rounding up on him, brows knit in fury. “You are a fool if you think that this will work. What’s next? Disbanding the Templars and the Seekers? Making the mages rulers of Thedas? You can't just blow everything up and expect it to work by itself purely because of good intentions!”

“It’s not-“ Tristan started, then stopped. He could argue with her for hours if he let himself, but he wasn’t about to do that. Allow enough people to think that they can question your decisions and you’ll never make another, his mother always said. For all the terrible things she had told him, she did have some sound pieces of advice to offer.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to soothe the waves of irritation rising in his chest. “What’s done is done. There's no going back now. Everyone needs to work together this time otherwise it's all for nothing.”

Cassandra rubbed her temples, huffing like a caged bull. When she looked at him again her eyes could make a forge melt. “Who will stop the mages when they decide to grab at power again, if the only people able to do that are not there anymore? I’ll tell you who,” she growled, bringing her face so close to his their noses almost touched. “The people of Thedas will bleed once more. The farmers, the sheep-herders, the dock workers. Men, women and children, defenceless against the dangers of magic. They will pay, as they always do. Only this time, there won’t be anyone left by the time the mages are done with them. I will not stand for this!”

Tristan’s nails dug deep into his arms as they rested there. He hadn’t realised he was trembling with anger. He forced himself to take a breath and pressed his lips together in a tight line, returning Cassandra’s glare levelly. “Seeker Pentaghast,” he said, lowering his voice so that only she could hear him. “You are still a member of the Inquisition, are you not? Or should I start doubting your loyalty?”

Her gasp was barely audible. “What?”

Tristan kept staring at her, determined not to back down. When he didn’t answer, she narrowed her eyes. “How dare you,” she spat. “I was the one who called the Inquisition into existence. Do you think I’m going to abandon it that easily?”

“You called the Inquisition, but I am leading it. You were the one who offered me the title. ‘Wherever you lead us’. You said that. Is that not true for you anymore?”

“Of course it is,” Cassandra retorted indignantly. “That does not mean I will agree with every-“

He cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “If you still believe it’s true, then act like it. If you don’t like the way things are now, help me make it right. I can only do so much by myself. If I can’t rely on the people around me, then what point is there?”

Tristan’s throat strained with the effort of keeping his voice calm, but he clenched his jaws as tightly as he could. He had promised himself he would not lose his composure, no matter what.

Cassandra blinked, taken aback by his words. “Inquisitor, I… I didn’t…”

“Excuse me, Seeker.” He brushed past her before she could finish her sentence, barely noticing her disgruntled look as he walked away, as far away from her as possible. Faces turned towards him as he stalked away, nodding in greeting and calling his name. He ignored them all. His eyes were burning behind his eyelids, his vision was blurry. He opened the first door he found and closed it hurriedly behind him.

He leaned with his back against the cold stone wall. He could still hear the sound of voices and music on the other side of the door, but it all seemed so far away from him. The stair to the library was empty. He was all alone. Finally.

He let his anger and frustration stream down his face. He had no desire to stop it, no reason. His palms were still balled up in fists at his sides, green light flickering from his left hand. He glanced at it, bleary eyed, as if it belonged to someone else.

Anger bubbled inside him, thick and hot like fresh tar. All he had wanted was to bring about a change that was needed more than anything else. He had vowed long ago that he would bring justice to his sister’s memory somehow, no matter the cost to him. But along the way, it had become so much more than that. It was about transforming the very hearts of the people, creating a world where no other mage would have to go through what Tilly had. Now that he was finally doing it, everyone wanted to rip him apart. How could he ever hope to change a world that was so rigid and unforgiving? And why was he not just letting it burn to the ground, with him in it?

He heard the latch on the door turning, and quickly wiped the tears from his face. It was an effort to assume a serious and unaffected expression when his eyes were still burning. Whoever it was, he would just excuse himself and go up the stairs to the library, right up to Leliana’s office and just hide himself there, away from everything and everyone, until…

His heart returned to its place when he saw Dorian’s face peeking through the door opening, but only barely. He closed it behind him softly and turned to face him, grey eyes searching Tristan’s face. “I couldn’t help but overhear what happened. Are you alright?” he asked, his voice edged with worry.

Tristan huffed, but it sounded more like a half sob. “Of course. Never better.” He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. He must have looked a mess. “Forgive me, I just… I’m not sure what happened back there. I guess it was the nerves from the speech, and Cassandra…” He shook his head and bit the inside of his lip, afraid to say more lest he embarrass himself even more.

Dorian nodded, taking a small, tentative step forward. “I understand. There’s no need to apologise to me. Maker knows how frustrating Seeker Pentaghast can be. She’s almost brought me to tears once or twice, and I didn’t threaten her precious Chantry. Truly!” he insisted with a smile, when Tristan started laughing.

The sound of his laughter echoed eerily along the empty staircase. Tristan sighed heavily, and wiped his eyes again. His smile was now only a memory on his lips.

“Cassandra is only the beginning. There are many who will oppose my decisions, this I know. I never asked for this sort of thing. I don’t even know what I’m doing half the time, yet the weight of the world falls on me. Everyone talks about how bad things are, how much needs to change, but no one wants to do anything about it. I’m aware there might be… personal reasons affecting my judgement, but at least I’m doing something. I’m trying to make things better. Curse me for a fool, but I am.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He was weary, so impossibly weary. He felt the sudden urge to just run away from it all.

Dorian’s voice was low and tender, a gentle caress after a painful blow. “What you did was very brave. I don’t say this very often but you are… unlike anyone I have ever met. You bring about change, everywhere you go. Not many people can claim that. Certainly not the ones running their mouths outside this door.”

He peaked under half closed lids at him. “You almost make it sound like you admire me.”

Dorian huffed in mock exasperation. “Very well, you’ve rooted me out. I obviously think you’re incredible. But I might be somewhat… biased.” Dorian was watching him carefully, silvery grey eyes glinting in the amber light of a torch above them. How beautiful were his eyes.

Without thinking, Tristan surged forward. Lips found warm, soft lips. The feel of skin against skin. A small gasp of surprise, a gentle moan in the echoing silence of the stair room. The taste of red wine on his tongue, the sweetness of cinnamon and cloves, and underneath it all, the taste of him.

It was everything he had been hoping for, everything he had been missing. It was soft, and warm, and tender, and it felt right. Maker, but it did. All reservations flew out of his mind when their lips locked, all the reasons why he’d been avoiding it, why he’d been running away. At that moment, drunk on the warmth of their shared breath, he regretted every single moment he could have kissed him and didn’t.

At that very moment, he knew; how could something that felt so right ever be wrong?

A moment passed, then another, enough time to wonder whether it was just him, whether he had pushed his luck too far this time. He drew back slightly to look up, lips already aching with the absence of his. But before he could speak, Dorian had leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss of his own.

It was all he needed. With a soft whimper, Tristan clung to him desperately. He kissed him harder, surrendering everything he had, barely stopping to draw breath. He needed, needed to be close to him, closer, as close as possible. Dorian’s arms were on the small of his back, pulling him in, holding nothing back. Tristan felt his breath leaving him when Dorian pushed him up against the wall, his breath hot and ragged on his skin. A sigh escaped his lips as Dorian pulled back, eyes blazing under heavy eyelids.

He brought one hand up to cup Tristan’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement of his finger with unusual intensity, as if he couldn't quite believe Tristan was there.

“I’ve been dreaming about this, you know,” Dorian whispered. His expression deepened, the sadness that Tristan had seen back then shining through. "I thought..." he hesitated. His eyes fixed themselves on Tristan's, and he let out a short, pained laugh. "I had almost lost hope."

Tristan's heart tightened. He cupped the back of his neck and gently pulled him forward, pressing his forehead to his. "I never wanted to hurt you, Dorian," he whispered, his voice choked. "All I wanted... all I ever wanted-"

Dorian leaned in, pressing a feather kiss to his lips. "It's alright,” he murmured against his mouth. “I understand."

"It's not," Tristan retorted, frowning. "I hurt you. I know I did. I pushed you away and didn’t even try to explain. Just the thought of you being upset, or angry because of me-"

"I’ll admit that there were a few moments that I wanted to smack you on the head with a particularly heavy book. But I don't anymore." Dorian smiled, a small, tender smile. "As if I could stay mad at you for long."

Tristan chuckled. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“It is for me.”

Tristan looked up into his eyes then, expecting them to gleam teasingly. But Dorian’s expression was serious as ever. Without waiting for a response, his arms wound around Tristan’s back,  holding him fast as he pressed his mouth to his. A shiver ran through Tristan then, at the warmth and the intensity, at the pulsing need with which Dorian held on to him. Blight, it was as if they had both been frozen, the fire inside each other their only chance at life. He let himself be swept away, not quite caring what was going on around him.

A bell rang from outside, announcing the beginning of toasts and speeches for the Inquisition’s work and its future. Tristan almost rolled his eyes as he heard Lady Josephine’s smooth voice thanking everyone for attending, and addressing the more esteemed members of nobility that were present.

“Perhaps we should go back,” Dorian offered reluctantly, pulling away. “People must already be wondering where you are.”

He took a step back, his eyes lingering on Tristan’s lips before he turned away. Tristan’s heart sank as he watched him move further away. The last thing he wanted was for that moment to end. Dorian’s hand was only a hair from the door knob when Tristan caught his arm and drew him back to him.

“I think the Inquisition can stand without me for a few more minutes.”

Dorian smiled against his lips. His fingers wound themselves in his hair, softly caressing his skin, sending shivers down the length of his spine. “We’ll have to explore the truth of this, won’t we now?”

Tristan laughed breathily as he fell back, letting himself be trapped between the stone wall and Dorian’s body once more. “I guess we will.”

[elellan]

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford Summary:

Riwan Lavellan wakes up after the Conclave only to find her world shattered into pieces. She strains to adjust to her new life in the Inquisition, especially after discovering that the Commander of its forces is an ex-templar.

CHAPTER NINE - Enasal ir sa lethalin

Cold. Freezing cold. She felt her face glued to the ground and her limbs paralyzed by that freezing sensation. She opened her eyes: earth brown ground and gravel under her. She tried to get up and numerous shocks of pain ran through her body as soon as she lifted herself, cutting her breath, making her head spin and her field of vision turn momentarily black as she collapsed again.

‘All right, take it easy. Take it easy’, she thought. ‘Deep breaths, smooth movements, one part at a time’.

It took her a few minutes to get up and to make a quick damage assessment: right ankle out of play; right knee hurt; right arm out of play. She looked around her: she was in a cave, in some sort of underground tunnel… . ‘Think, think, think. I fell from over there’, she thought, seeing a hole in the ceiling further behind her, under which a pile of snow and debris had fallen, blocking the exit. ‘It would be too high, anyway’. She was cold and wet and hurt. Panic started to devour the pit of her stomach. Images of what had happened the Creators knew how many hours before started to rush wildly in her head: the Venatori had attacked Haven, she had been blocked there by Corypheus and his dragon, she had let him talk and talk - about the Golden City, which was black and empty, about how he claimed the godhood that he thought he deserved. He tried to tear the anchor away from her hand - anchor, that was the name of the green gash in her hand and he claimed he owned it, that its use was to rip open the Fade and that she was using it now against its purpose . He had an orb in his hand, which he carried greedily, where part of that power had been bestowed. And then, when finally the signal had come, when she knew that the others were safe, it was she, Riwan, who had cut the rope of the trebuchet with a dagger. The rocks that the machinery had cast against the mountain caused a majestic avalanche and she had ran and ran and… .

‘If I fell forward… Haven must be behind me, this must be the old mine, the others must be behind the mountain behind Haven. I’ll have to get out of here and turn right and then right whenever I can’. She hoped that she was right. She begged someone in her head to prove her right. She started limping forward, trying not to think of the excruciating pain that every step implied. And trying not to think about how cold it was, so cold that her fingers and her toes hurt bitterly.

‘Go on, just go on’. She started to sing an old elven song in her head to keep her going. ‘Lath sulevin, lath aravel ena, arla ven… . A turn right, take it, take it’. She put her foot wrong and her head started spinning wildly.

When the arrow was shot, signaling that they were out of danger and had crossed the mountain pass, Cullen and Cassandra gave each other a look that shared similar thoughts. He had never seen the Seeker so shaken, nor had she seen that dread in his eyes. But they had to move on, reach the valley down below and make sure that everyone arrived there safely and that the civilians were out of danger, that the camp was set out right.

They followed the multitude that was descending the steep path, unable to express their thoughts, unable to say what they were all thinking, that she was dead, because a mountain had literally fallen upon her head. And that wasn’t an accurate account of how things had gone because the truth was they had asked her to do it, for their own safety. And she did it. She set off, obliging her duties with no complaints, she had agreed that it was the best plan and had ran to set it in action.

“We made her do it…”, the words escaped his lips.

“I was with her. She volunteered. She was the only one who could do it. I should have… I should have stayed with her, I shouldn’t have escaped as soon as I got  the opportunity…”.

“She told you to do it”.

They were empty words. They were trying to reassure each other, when the truth was that it was all their fault.

“We have to be quick to settle and organize search parties as soon as possible. I hope that Josephine and Leliana up on the front will be already on it”.

“Yes”, Cassandra didn’t know what to think about it, it seemed absurd to think about sending their men in search of her, yet she would have wanted to run back in that exact moment and begin the search right now, “You shouldn’t have waited for us. Shush. I know that you saw us from afar. But we could have made it…”.

“The avalanche would have probably swallowed you all up too”.

She sighed angrily, “It’s no use discussing about it now. Let’s find Josephine and Leliana and start the search”.

Arla vehn tu vir mahvir, melana ‘nehn…. . Two despair demons had appeared. She knew she couldn’t fight them with her bow, so she raised her hand and the magic from the Fade had obliged her: a sort of electric field had appeared, the same colour and consistency of the rifts, and had trapped the two things until they had faded with horrible screams. She had smiled bitterly and continued to go on.

Melana ‘nehn, enasal ir sa lethalin. An exit. Her vision was blurred again. ‘No, don’t give in’, she thought. She leaned against the wall of the cave breathing deeply. Arla vehn tu vir mahvir. She went on again. She was out. A fierce wind met her and nearly knocked her off her feet. Another jolt of pain through her leg. She gasped for the ache and whined when she saw a white stretch of snow all around her. ‘Where am I, where am I… . I turned right once, I have to circle around this mountain to find the pass, yes’. She thought desperately, for the only thing she could do now was to believe that she was right and that she wasn’t making it all up. It was the right direction.

She was ankle deep in snow, she had to slow down significantly. Melana ‘nehn, enasal… . There was something over there in front of her. She was panting and huffing. A cart buried in the snow. It could have been theirs or it could have been a wreckage of someone else’s disgrace for all she knew. ‘Go on. GO ON’.

They had reached the camp and Cullen had started barking orders in a controlled fury. He knew that going mad wouldn’t help and he knew how to handle every crisis situation. His soldiers mutely obeyed, looking straight in his eyes: he could feel them trying to silence their fear and insecurity by drawing from his strength and steadiness of will. He had to make them set camp in an ordered fashion, he had to set patrols… . He stayed there with them, making them understand that it was all in control. His lieutenants arrived and helped him out and after a few minutes he felt confident enough and marched in search of Cassandra. He tried to cut out of his brain the memories from earlier that night: he had seen her sitting across the bonfire; she had slowly turned in his direction and he had seen her face in the midst of the flames; after a while she had looked at him too and had smiled serenely. Not happily, as she usually did, there was a vein of sorrow in that smile. But she was serene. Then the venatori had come. She was stunned at first but she immediately became focused and fierce, her eyes had narrowed, she had commanded him to give her a plan, anything that could keep them at bay. Then, when the dragon had come and they could no longer fight, they decided to go for that damned plan, thanks to Chancellor Roderick and to that boy, Cole. He had told her something before she bolted away. She had turned for a brief moment and he had seen her smile. She had meant to look confident but he was sure that she was thinking the same thing as he was. That she was going to meet her death.

“Cullen, there you are!”, Cassandra was with Josephine and Leliana and was putting her shield on her shoulders once more.

“We have already sent some men all around the area”, Leliana said. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was wrapping herself up in a furry mantel.

“Commander, Leliana, could you spare some of your men? We are going in too”, Cassandra said with an imperative tone, looking expectantly towards Cullen.

“Of course”, he said, “Let’s go”. They marched away steadily, not hearing Josephine behind them telling them not to act like fools.

Her head was dangling from her neck. She kept going on, slower by the minute. Enasal ir sa lethalin, enasal ir sa lethalin. She repeated obsessively those words, they seemed the only thing that kept her awake. The song and the wolves’ howling. Every time she would nod off she heard them coming and she would start in fear and manage to barely open her eyes and continued walking. The snow arrived right at the middle of her calf. The pain in her right side was numbed by the intense cold, but every step seemed like the last one. She was flanking a patch of pine trees.

She went on blindly. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Was that a campfire, on the edge of the wood? It was covered in snow. ‘Go on’. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Enasal ir sa lethalin.

She nodded off. After a few minutes, or hours, or seconds, another wolf howled. Right in her ear. She opened her eyes whimpering and shielding her face with her left arm. But there were no wolves to be seen. ‘All right, all right, I’m going on’, she told them.

Knee deep in the snow . She stopped. The wind was so fast that she felt like she was in a blizzard now. ‘I will reach that ridge other there, I can’t go any further’, she explained to the howling wolves.

Enasal ir sa lethalin. Enasal ir sa lethalin. She panted with every step she took now. Enasal ir sa lethalin. One step. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Two steps. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Three steps. She closed her eyes. Enasal ir sa lethalin. ‘If if fall, let it be from a great height, so that I will stop feeling pain’. Enasal ir sa lethalin. The ridge is near. Enasal ir sa lethalin. ‘Stop howling, I’m going on. I’m reaching the ridge, then I have to stop’. Enasal ir sa lethalin. Almost there. Enasal ir sa lethalin. ‘A campfire? Ashes?’ Only the thought of it made her choke in tears that didn’t come out of her eyes. No, it was cold. Enasal ir sa lethalin. She was on the ridge. She looked down and for a moment she thought that she could see, amidst the blizzard, lights shining afar. Or maybe it was her imagination. She moaned and fell on her knees.

They moved through the snow in large steps, keeping themselves in the path that Haven’s crowd had cut through it. Their bodies ached from fatigue but their will guided them forward.

Cullen was on the front, followed suit by Cassandra and the soldiers. He looked all around him in search of something, a figure in the snow, the familiar green light sparkling from her hand. Any silhouette that stood out on the white expanse made his heart skip a beat and then his spine shiver when it turned out to be just a rock or some of their supplies fallen down a slope.

He took the last steep steps that led him to the ridge with angry energy. The wind blew even more savagely up there and the snow covered his view. He made sure that the others were behind him then proceeded and scanned the area with a hand covering his brow.

In front of him, down there. Was it a rock? Heart beating wildly. It was a rock. A few more steps. It moved. His heart leapt in his chest.

“There!”, he yelled. He knew it. It must be her. He ran. It was her.

“Thank the Maker!”, Cassandra gasped behind him. He heard the soldiers holding their breath.

He kneeled down, shaking slightly. He took her cautiously off the snow and steadied her in a firm grip in his arms, keeping her arms and legs as tight as he could in order to prevent further damage if she had some broken bones.

“Is she alive?”, anguish exuded from Cassandra’s voice. His heart stopped again. Her face was unnaturally white, her lips were blue, the skin around her eyes was nearly purple. The Seeker gently slapped Riwan’s cheek and the elf’s eyelids fluttered for a brief moment.

“She is”, he whispered, exhaling heavily. “Let’s go, as quickly as we can”.

She didn’t see them coming, she didn’t hear them. It was pitch black. Only for a moment she felt as if she was being carried and she felt her head resting on something fuzzy and warm. She felt the faint smell of blood and sweat and the faintest of all… sandalwood.

“Cu… Cullen?”, she croaked.

“Yes. You’re safe now. I’m taking you somewhere safe”.

[loversandantiheroes]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: F/M Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Lyrium Withdrawal, Lyrium Addiction, visual and auditory hallucinations, Mild Gore, Hurt/Comfort, first comes the hurt, then comes the comfort, I swear there will be comfort

The threat of Adamant looms, and the cracks begin to show.  Big, huge, and many thanks to @songofproserpine, @aloy-sobek, and @juliannos for beta reading this chapter.  I’ve spent a lot of time on this trying to get it right.  Here’s hoping I succeeded.

---------------------------------

Adamant.

“Read it again,” Cullen said, stone-faced, praying he had heard wrong

Josephine sat behind her desk, eyes wide with that same alarmed disbelief he felt, but she nodded just the same, cleared her throat, and began to read.

The Wardens are compromised.  A Magister of the Venatori, Livius Erimond has infiltrated their ranks and convinced them their only chance of ensuring an end to the Blights before the Calling consumes them is to raise a demon army and march upon the Deep Roads and kill the Old Gods before they can be corrupted.  What we stumbled upon appears to have been the first attempt at the binding ritual.  Erimond instructed a small group of Warden mages to each kill one of their fellows, some sort of blood magic ritual to draw and bind a demon.  More concerning: while the ritual places the demon in the thrall of the mage that bound it, it also binds the mage to Corypheus.  The familiarity of this is not lost on me, I remember Redcliffe too well.  We have dispatched the ‘test group’, but Erimond has escaped.  Hawke and Stroud have scouted west on Stroud’s hunch and have found the Wardens occupying an ancient stronghold called Adamant.  I do not know the name, but I imagine at least one of you does, and Stroud’s face when he spoke of it tells me more than I wish to know.  ��We return for Skyhold at once.  We must plan, and we must plan quickly.

Josephine laid the missive down gingerly.  “This is...dire.”

“Adamant has been unbreachable for centuries,” Leliana said, her voice cold and hushed like a dagger in the dark..

“Centuries ago they did not have trebuchets,” Cullen said, striving for a confidence he did not in any way feel.  “We need sappers.”

“I believe one of Bull’s Chargers is a sapper,” Leliana suggested.  “And we have Dagna.  That is at least a start.  I will do some digging, see who else we have that may be of use.”

Josephine began rifling through papers on her desk.  “I believe I may be able to call in a favor for siege equipment.  Not all nobles deal purely in coin and gossip.”

“That just leaves us with enthralled Wardens and demons,” Leliana muttered darkly.  “They could house over a thousand men there.”

The pain in Cullen’s head flared, a sharp pulse at his temples.  “Our Templars should be prepared.  Our people should be prepared.”

“The Inquisitor returns with haste,” Josephine said.  “Two weeks by horse relay, perhaps less.  That gives us some time to prepare.”

Cullen scowled.  “Another five to make the march back out there with enforcements, and that’s on top of preparations.  Andraste preserve us, Erimond could fill Adamant in that time if he has enough mages among the Wardens.”

“How many of your remaining Templars are at Skyhold, Commander?” Leliana asked.

“Nowhere near enough.  I will send word, recall as many as possible to Skyhold.”  He turned on his heel, gripping the hilt of his sword, and made for his office.

Unbreachable.  Maker, if only the walls were their only worry.

* * *

Preparations had to be made, even before the Inquisitor’s return.  Cullen sent dozens of letters, ordering an immediate return to base for every Templar they had in the field.  The numbers were considerably less than he cared for, barely over fifty all told, with perhaps a half dozen veterans among them.  A rueful little voice nattered in his ear, reminding him if they had only gone to the Templars, if he had the full force of the Order at his disposal….  But of course, he didn’t.  The choice had been made.  And given the actions of the demon Krem said had been impersonating the Lord Seeker, sending the Herald into Therinfal Redoubt would have been like driving a lamb into a slaughtering pen.  It was not the alliance he regretted, it was the loss.

And so the week went, a flurry of activity and too-little sleep.  The headache persisted and brought with it a faint, charred smell that followed him as he went about his duties, craning his neck to search for signs of smoke.  The itch came soon after, bone-deep and low, something that made him want to twist and squirm in his own skin.  Cullen was too disciplined for that, too stubborn.  

But he moved, and he kept moving.  He paced constantly.  Inspections doubled.  A sand pit was hastily constructed near the practice yard to give the men some idea of what they might face if the fight took them outside of the fortress walls.  The time he spent in the sparring ring jumped dramatically.  And even there he was restless, moving and rolling and driving aside the less practiced with an alarming ferocity.  None were injured, but more than a few soldiers left the ring with their practice weapons cracked and their heads hung in exhausted defeat.

His soldiers bore his agitation.  The staff on the other hand were less equipped to handle it.  He was short with them, an irritation that grew steadily worse as the week wore on, until it was a fight to keep his fool mouth shut before he berated some poor maid for doing their job too close to him, or a runner for slamming doors they swore they had not touched.  Overworked was the polite whisper.  Arsehole was the less polite version, and he couldn’t claim it was unearned.  His behavior was regrettably noted.  None seemed to mark the reason behind it, save for Cassandra who kept a wary, albeit distant, eye on him, but said nothing.

The thirst returned soon after.  A familiar addition, and one he considered to be no great concern.  Cullen had long since learned to ration his water.  And if his tongue worried restlessly over too-dry lips and his throat ached with the need for something colder, cleaner, bluer - well, what of that?  Pain was pain, and he could take it.  And he did.  More and more each day.  Until the headaches were inescapable and his joints felt like fire and broken glass.  The remedies helped, when good sense came to him in the grounding guise of Aadhlei’s voice and overrode his pride, urging him to finally send slips to the infirmary for the potions that would dull the pain, or settle his stomach enough to keep half a hurried meal down, or to sleep for longer than an hour at night without jerking awake to the muffled sounds of phantom explosions.

And so he endured.  He had little choice else.  The cost of failure was far too high.  It was a well-worn slog, horrible but at the very least predictable, until the ninth day.

Morning found him pulling on his armor, hair combed but face unshaven, fighting to still the tremors in his hands enough to buckle on his breastplate.  A missive had arrived by raven the night before declaring the Inquisitor had just passed Halamshiral.  Four days left, three if she kept up the relay.  There had been no direct letters since she had left the Western Approach, and he could not claim that he did not feel their absence, or hers.  It had been well over a month since she had left Skyhold with Hawke and Stroud in tow. He realized with a glum sort of wistfulness that this was almost certainly the longest they had spent apart since they had met.  

Yet the relief he expected with the news of her return was nowhere to be found.  Instead all he felt was a cold, creeping dread that snaked its way through his gut like a wire.  She would return, and she would look to him with trust in those soft green eyes that had shaken him free of so many nightmares, and she would expect him to give council.  And what did he have?  A migraine and a rather impressive case of the shits.  Fine council, indeed.

Idiot boy.

Cullen froze.  The voice was clear and harsh, a mocking sneer.  And Maker, it sounded close.  Close enough that Cullen fancied if he turned he would see the Knight-Commander’s eyes, steel shot through with red, mere inches from his own.

“You’re dead,” he said, voice taut.  He pulled his gorget over his head and set to fastening it down.  “At least have the decency to be silent.”

You called me mad.  My own Knight-Captain stood against me.  And for what?  To protect blood mages.  And now here they stand again.  Weak and foolish Wardens turning to blood magic to save their own skins.  They will paint Thedas red in blood and lyrium and it will be on your head.

And then the room was gone.  All around was chaos; the steel-on-steel clash of combat, the sizzling crack and pull of magic, but even that was drowned out by the sounds of pure panic and carnage.

The choice was yours, Knight-Captain.  Blessed are those that stand before the wicked and do not falter.  And when have you done anything but falter?

Cullen pushed his fists against his eyes.  Skyhold.  Not Kirkwall.  Look up.

Cullen lifted his head, desperate, searching for the skylight that was - should be there.  It wasn’t.  Above him hung a slate-grey sky, thick with smoke and storm clouds, tinged red where the fires burned highest.  Kirkwall was burning.  Again?  Still?  Maker, did it even matter?  Kirkwall burned and he had let it happen.  Had, in point of fact, helped build the pyre.

The world flickered like a candle flame in a sudden draft and Kirkwall was gone.  High stone walls surrounded him, a sprawl of putrid, pulsing flesh climbing up it like diseased ivy.  He could smell it, the sweetness of its rancidity almost enough to mask the old-copper scent of blood.  And the blood was everywhere.  Bodies lay in mutilated piles around him, some mangled beyond recognition, but others were still painfully familiar.  Farris’s head regarded him with bland, slack-jawed terror from the end of a spike, one eye rolled up to the ceiling.  A few feet away, from the base of a pile protruded an arm, surprisingly whole, with smooth skin broken by a long pink scar that stopped near the elbow.  ‘A bandit with a broken dagger,’ Annalise would tell anyone that listened, but the reality of it had been a clumsy fall into a stack of pottery.  

Cullen’s stomach twisted, gorge rising.  He saw all of it through a shimmering haze of violet, a barrier, a prison.  They had stuck him here to watch the slaughter.  How many had been cut down before his eyes?  How many torn apart?  How many left broken and begging for death for hours before their pleas were granted?

He felt a spasm wrack his body, making him shake and rattle in his armor like a specter in a ghost story.  Lyrium withdrawal, his first true taste of it, etched into his mind with blood and screaming.

You couldn’t save them, Meredith spoke up in a voice like ice.  What makes you think you can protect the men that serve you now, or that posturing maleficarum that calls herself Inquisitor?  You were a failure even with the lyrium in your veins, you are a fool to think you could be more without it.  You lead them into death, boy.  That’s all you know how to do.

“NO!” he roared, fists lashing out to strike the barrier and finding only empty air and darkness.

Skyhold, he told himself desperately.  Not Kirkwall, not Kinloch!  Damn your eyes, Rutherford, look up!  Find it!

Again he craned his neck up, conjuring the image of the window in his mind.  Greens and browns and blues, tall trees and running dogs and the sky beyond it.  On its heels came the afterthought of Aadhlei standing beneath it, the sunlight in her hair and the light touch of her fingers on the inside of his wrist, a scent of herbs clinging to her hair and faint lilac on her skin.

One moment there was only darkness above him, thick, black, and endless. The next moment he was staring up at the skylight above his bed, glinting prettily in the first pale gold of morning.

Cullen crumpled to his knees on the floor of his bedroom, hung his head, and wept.

* * *

The wind cut cold across Skyhold’s battlements, chilling the sweat that stood out stark against Cullen’s face as he caught sight of the line of horses speeding toward the front gate.  He wavered, swaying on his feet, the pounding in his head increasing threefold.  Aadhlei rode at the forefront, he recognized her not by her mount but by the shade of her cloak and the staff strapped to her back.  He had held out some shred of hope that the sight of her might bolster the last cracking remains of his resolve, that he might find strength enough to endure for her sake, if not for his.  Maker, he had hoped….

Meredith’s voice rang out in his head, cold and sharp as a surgeon’s blade.  Your pride will be the death of her.

It was in his head.  It was only in his head this time, and he knew it.  But even that could not stop the twisting in his chest.  There was no comfort here.  No comfort anywhere.  A small sound, weak and defeated, escaped his lips in a rush of white vapor.

I can’t.

Though his knees felt hot and loose and ready to buckle, they bore him swiftly enough down the stairs towards the place where the Seeker stood, testing a fresh blade.  “A word please, Lady Cassandra.  I require your...opinion on a matter.”

She regarded him coolly, casting a brief glance to the gate as shouts of the Inquisitor’s approach rang out.  “I don’t suppose I need to ask what this is about.”

“In private,” he half-snarled, jerking his head toward the door of the smithy.  “Please.”

Cassandra gave him an assessing look, then nodded grimly.  “As you say.”

Cullen strode ahead, shoving the door open with enough force to startle one of Harritt’s apprentices into dropping the sword he was grinding.

“Out,” Cullen said, pointing at the far door.

“Begging your pardon, Commander?” Harritt said, his eyebrows hovering about halfway up his bald head in his surprise.  “All due respect, ser, but this is my-”

“Out!”

The apprentices were out the door before Harritt had even the chance to toss the half-forged steel back in the embers.  He followed, begrudgingly, bitching under his breath as he went.

As the door shut behind him, Cassandra spoke.  “The answer is no.”

Cullen turned on his heel, wobbling.  “Do I have no say in this at all?”

“If I thought it necessary, Cullen, I would have relieved you of your command already.  That I have not should be the only answer you need.”

“Maker’s breath, will you just listen to me?”

She folded her arms, scowling.  “Very well, Commander.  I am listening.”

“I,” he faltered almost immediately, pride again taking control of his tongue.  He set to pacing in front of the forge, sweat pouring down the sides of his face to pool under his armor.  Maker how could he sweat, he was bloody freezing.  Slowly the words ground out of him.  “I cannot do this.”

He began to unpack it, or at least he tried to, giving a halting index of symptoms and incidents.  Try as he might, he couldn’t quite find the words to explain the worst of it, dancing around the visions and voices and memories with all the care of a wounded animal trying to hide a lame and mangled leg.  When he had finished as best he could he turned again to Cassandra, breathing a little too raggedly, hoping to see some shift in her face, some sign she understood.

“I do not believe your concerns to be unfounded, Commander,” she began.

“Thank you.” “However, I do not believe it warrants your resignation or replacement.”

“What?” he spat, incredulous.

“We face our first true test of battle as a unified force against Corypheus soon.  It is understandable that you might begin to doubt-”

“This is beyond doubt, Seeker.  If I am made to lead our people into battle in this condition we will fail.  Our people will die.  The Inquisitor will- I cannot let that happen!  I will not!”

Cassandra’s scowl deepened.  “You asked for my opinion and I’ve given it.  What more do you expect of me?”

“I expect you to keep your word,” Cullen sneered, rubbing at another sudden spike at his temples.  “It’s relentless, I can’t-”

“You give yourself too little credit,” she said.  

Another time he might’ve seen it for what it was - a compliment, a confidence in his abilities.  But he was too fogged with pain and the nattering of too-close memories.  The sweat was in his eyes, stinging, and the smell of fire and steel lit up his nerves.

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this.  Would you rather save face than admit-”

The door behind him swung open quietly, the faintest squeak of a hinge, and he wheeled at the sound.  “I said get OUT!” he roared.

And then his eyes cleared, and all his fire died.  Standing in the doorway, wind-chapped and exhausted in her stained travelling clothes, was Aadhlei.  She stared at him for a long beat, too shocked to speak.  Coward that he was, he couldn’t bear the thought of what she might say when her voice returned.  Cullen hung his head and stalked out the door, too ashamed to look at her, mumbling in a low and ragged voice: “Forgive me.”

Part of him was sure she wouldn’t.  Another part of him, small and painfully bitter, was sure she would.  He could not say which was worse.

[mythalsknickers]

For the DADWC: "things you said under the stars and in the grass," for the pairing of your choice!

Title: Speak Right to the HeartPairing: Cullen x Drysi Amell-TrevelyanRating: TBDWarnings/Tags: Lyrium AddictionWord Count: 1822For @dadrunkwritingI hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing this, I somehow managed to emerge victorious from the pit of angst I had fallen into.

Cullen stood over his desk, watching the sky turn from blue to a rich purple and gold. Patiently, he waited as the candles created shadows that danced in the waning light. He glanced out the door,  stomach tightening as his heart leapt into his throat. It would be tonight. If he waited, he was not sure he would ever ask her.

Reaching up, his armor shifted, ringing in the silent room he carefully tousled his tamed hair. It had been a chance, the first time he saw her climb the ramparts and began patrolling. Some nights she was out until the very first light of dawn crept through the mountains. A smirk tugged at his lips, for just a moment he had caught the sight of a pale silver gleam of her leather robes.

In a moment it shattered, his brows knitted together as his eyes narrowed. Hunching over his hand fell instinctively to his sword as his head throbbed, and every bone in his body cried out thirst. The all too familiar icy pit of need filled his stomach and his throat tightened. His eyes almost devoid of emotion scanned the room before locking onto a faint blue glow from his desk drawer. He could hear it singing to him. How could he protect her, what she was building without it? He needed it.

Squeezing his eyes closed, his hand clenched his sword. He tensed as he straightened out of his hunch. He forced himself to take a deep breath, before slowly exhaling, he just needed to let go of it. He needed his freedom from the Chantry more then he needed the Lyrium. It seemed like hours, as he just fought against the need to open the kit up.

“Never again.” He promised hoarsely to himself, finally tearing his eyes away from his desk he scanned for the flash of silver leather.  She stood out against the wind as it tore and battered at the argent dyed leather, and her short, almost raven colored hair. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck as he watched her. It was hard to imagine, that this woman he had been taught would need his protection, no longer did. She stood against the icy wind, rather unfazed, in leather and chain armor. She looked like a warrior Teyrna.

He stepped around his desk, eyes flickering to that faint blue glow for a moment. He lifted his hand away from his sword and pulled open a drawer, tearing his attention away from that blue glow, in favor of a small coin and a worn silver ring around a delicate chain. A smile tugged at his scarred lips before he gathered both up. Shoving the drawer closed, he left his office in a few strides, breathing in the night air.

It was now or never.

It was near silent tonight and the cold wind that howled down from the peaks of the mountains wrapped around her like an icy hug.  There was so much from Adamant that needed to be decided. She wrapped her arms around herself and let out a soft sigh, watching it hang in the cold air, turning to fog for just a moment. Her shoulders were drawn tight as her mind raced. Only two things had been made clear at Adamant, leaving so much undecided. She and Loghain were no longer wardens in the sense that those in Adamant were, and Corypheus’ dragon was little more than a familiar. There had been no familiar song, deafening as it attacked them.

She reached up to her neck, long fingers ghosting over the dark ink that shaped mountains into weather-beaten skin before wrapping around the tarnished silver chain, tugging the heavy medallion free from under her collar. Instinctively, her fingers traced over the worn sword of mercy, while her eyes searched the mountains for a sign.

“Bit for your thoughts?” A rich voice spoke.

Her fingers tightened as she fought the instinct of her magic to lash out as he spoke. It was just Cullen. For a moment, her icy eyes stared at the mountains as if to argue with them, before she turned to face him. She let her eyes soften, and gave him the slightest of smiles.

“By Andraste’s pyre Cullen, how are you so quiet!” She laughed as he reached up to rub his neck. “I doubt my worries are even worth a bit.” She offered with a soft shrug and glanced over at him. He always seemed to smell of shortbread cookies, the ones with just a bit of orange zest in them.

“Well if they aren’t worth a bit, how about…” She canted her head as he paused, scratching at his neck. “How about we leave for a few days? I have something I wish to show you.” The way his eyes sparkled sparked nostalgia, a time that felt like a lifetime ago; stolen kisses between the rows of books, soft laughter as they snuck out onto the shore to count the stars, desperate hands as they never wanted to be parted. She could almost feel it all.

“Can we just leave?” She breathed fervently. She glanced over at the mountains where they met the budding night sky. Each beat of her heart hammered her chest. She was afraid to breathe.   It had to be too good to be true. By Koth and the Lady, it sounded like… She didn’t dare hope, did she?

“Cullen…Am I understanding right? Are you wanting to go…” She paused, trying to find the words, her brows furrowing in frustration as nothing came.

“I am wanting to take you away from here…For a moment just to ourselves. I can’t go back in time, but Drysi; I want there to be more than that kiss that Leliana’s poor scout interrupted.” He offered as her breath hitched, catching in her throat before fits of giggles broke loose. The sounds of her mirth loosened something in him, and she was soon met with his rich laughter. A moment just for them was a dream come true. With a breath, she smiled at him, finally finding the words.

“A trip…away with just us.” Her eyes closed as she pictured it; just as they had always talked. Somewhere quiet; just them, away from the world, hiding in a single tent and curled against each other for comfort, the heat of passion coiled into them both in the still of the night, where no one could hear them. “It sounds like a dream Cullen, let me get together a bag.”

It was just a moment as he reached out, catching her hand and giving her a smile before giving a slight tug to bring her in close.

“I will meet you. Outside of the gate.” He whispered under the light of the stars.  He pressed a quick kiss to her hand as he pulled away from her. She stepped back and fumbled, grabbing ahold of the rampart. He had, in a single moment, uprooted the budding plan she had to finish this with Corypheus. Her heart hammered as she tried to recompose her mask, no one would be in the hall, not at this hour she hoped.

It had been ten years ago when the planned this. She turned and looked back at the mountains,  shaking her head with a small smile. A sign from gods that actually listened, a chance for her to find happiness. She pushed away from the rampart and dashed down to the rotunda door. There was no caution as she flung it open and slammed it closed before dashing into the hall, past the silent enigma that was Solas.

There was no race but she wasted no time flying up the countless flights of stairs to her quarters, tossing the door open, the clash of wood and stone echoed through the too large room. Grabbing her bag from the road, she tore open the wardrobe.

“Where did you put it Leliana.” she grumbled, sending clothes and shoes flying out onto the thick furs. Under everything, her fingers found it. A thin golden box that symbolized a trip to a rather specialized boutique in Val Royaeux.  With reverence, she pulled out the package opening it up. She didn’t dare wear them when she left on missions. Pulling out her prize she laid it out on the bed before removing her armor, long enough to conceal it under her armor for tonight. ��The remainder of her packing bore no ceremony as her clothes were tossed into the bag with no real care, along with her traveling gear.

As she left the great hall the sky had darkened considerably, a ride down south by the moonlight, she couldn’t help the blush that crept up her cheeks. Carefully she crept through the gates before walking down to where Cullen held a pair of horses as they grazed. She took a moment just to watch him pat the horses and listen to the night. How…how in any god’s name had she gotten this lucky, to have another chance with him. After all bitter hurt, forgiveness, and timid friendship here it was, a chance for them to both be free to love each other finally.

“Shall we Cullen?” she offered walking up to the familiar black Forder who had carried her around Ferelden quite contentedly. Reaching up she stroked the mare’s nose while he watched her with a smile she could feel without looking up at him. It was a moment before she stepped up onto the stirrup and swung over onto the saddle.

“Let’s we aren’t going far tonight, but tomorrow we will be out of range of the guard towers.” he offered as he mounted the almost golden stallion and urged him into a quick canter. Shaking her head in a moment of amusement she gently tapped the mare before she was off after him into the night.

There was no competition, it was just a canter in the moonlight enjoying each other’s company, the laughter, and pure joy of just being able to do this together. The trail wove and dipped following a small stream off the mountain. As Cullen slowed, she slowed her mare following as he passed through a small arch of ancient willows into a mostly secluded grove.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered as the stopped the horses dismounting. She laid out in the tall grass looking up at the stars as Cullen chuckled beginning to set up the one tent. She just laid there watching the night sky whispering the names of the constellations.

“Cullen” she called finally mustering the courage. The only response she had was the rustle of grass as he made his way to her.

“Hm?” he kneeled down before joining her in laying back in the grass and the horses grazed on the grove on a simple tether to the tent.

“I love you.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

Writing Snippet #37

--

From the ways I said I love you meme: Over a beer bottle. Or in this case, a wine glass.

Halamshiral is a mess of noblity and masks, but Dimitri has his own mask. Plus some backup.

--

Dimitri’s pointed teeth lingered on his lip, fussing despite the gold paint across his lips the would’ve been smeared by the anxious motion. His eyes moved across the ballroom, taking long moments to survey nobility as they talked amongst themselves; the light was dim--only candelabras filling the room with warmth. Not as if it bothered him considering with a simple bow of his head most were none the wiser on who he was. A fancily dressed elf, but most eyes didn’t linger long enough to take in his vestige. Golden accents shined across his deep red tunic, swirling into intricate patterns not unlike the tattoos that painted his face. Even those were accented with thin painted golden lines; much the same decorated his long hair, twisted into intricate braids swelling from the crown of his head down to the small of his back. He was quite proud of them considering he had painstakingly twisted the strands into the patterns, the shapes not unlike the braids he wore back in his clan days. Another piece of elvish history for the nobles to unknowingly gawk at and fall in love with.

He smiled behind the rim of his glass and took another long sip, the alcohol a burn on the back of his tongue, but the end was soft and sweet. Even so, the taste was colored by the company surrounding him. His lips pressed into a thin line, spotting Leliana moving across the ballroom. He watched her for a long moment until she disappeared into the crowd and he held back a faint sigh. He set his wine glass aside, pushing a braid from off his shoulder to have it fall back down his back. He saw the movement to his left and he ducked out of the way, dipping his head. He tucked the marked hand behind his back to block the magical light that had been slowly pulsing all night, pain settling into his wrist and forearm. It was far from the level of daily aches he was accustomed to, so it was nothing to grin and bear the assault.

“Inquisitor Enallasani!” One of the women perked up as she passed by and he lifted his head, smile adorning his lips.

“How might I be of service to do this evening, Madam?” His voice was smooth as silk and she giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand while her mask hid her blush.

“It is a shame how you are standing about here all alone...” She clicked her tongue and he smiled, hands fussing behind his back.

“Alas, the current company is quite lacking.” He agreed with her and she smiled in return.

“A shame really...” He could hear the pouting in her voice even as her face betrayed none of it. She was posturing for his ear and they both knew it, too wrapped up within the intricacies the Game demanded to say outright.

“I would be quite delighted if you would have me as your company this evening, my lady.” He offered to her and she smiled yet again. “Would you care for a dance? He gestured below and she giggled.

“I would be delighted, my lord.” She graciously took the arm he offered and he lead her along the ballroom, falling perfectly into step with her.

He graciously lead her down the stairs to the floor below, taking her hand as they took their places. The music swelled and he smiled, the pair easily falling into the familiar steps. He graciously lead her through the dance—weaving between the other dancers—even though he knew it was all for the sake of the influence.

Even as the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, he knew to her that he was nothing but a pawn to gain favor. A token to flaunt her influence on. He spun her around and smiled wearly at her, almost able to hear how she would inevitably go on and on at others how she had gotten a dance with the Herald of Andraste.

He was a token to her, nothing more.

It was all nothing but a game, one played behind masks, silk and assassination attempts. Each person who passed in the swirling complex dance had a self they constructed and built up to hide the unsavory parts of who they truly were. Each one wore a carefully constructed mask, one that would let them vie and posture for power with the ones they loved. Each was a piece in the Grand Game, easily knocked away or killed as a pawn upon a chess board; the king stood ahead and nothing mattered more than that.

Dimitri knew well the selves they created like masks; he wore one upon himself each day to hide the lingering pains, his broken mind, and how his actions deemed him the vilest sinner in Thedas. But, unlike them his mask was naught to be seen under. None but the craftiest had managed a peek under the golden crown of Andraste to witness the broken legs of the elf who bore the weight. 

One of the craftiest laid not far away, biding his time on the Vestibule.

The music came to a slow and steady end and he graciously bowed to her, her curtsey following, and he took her hand, leading her off the dance floor. He spied Leliana not far away as he climbed the stairs, blue eyes telling him everything in naught but a glance.

“My lady,” he began with a quiet hint of regret in his voice, “I am quite ashamed to say, but I must be cutting our time together short this evening.” He folded his hands back behind his back, forging genuine sorrow on his face.

“I am sad to learn of such, but the Inquisitor is a much needed man. Even though many would prefer to have him all to themselves.” She replied with a heavy sigh and no shame about hiding her inclusion in the statement. No doubt she would like to enjoy everything about him if her tone was anything to go by.

He took her hand, placing a small kiss atop her knuckles. “Until next time, my lady.”

--

Dimitri leaned against the railing, shoulders deflating as he sunk to his elbows. Inside the split blood of the Empress needed scrubbed from the rugs and it would take weeks to get the blood off of the marble fountain were Florienne had been struck down. Despite the set back, the War of the Lions had ended with Gaspard having a firm elven leash around his neck, Briala holding tightly at the lead. Dimitri stood quietly behind in the shadows, the great orchestrator of upheaval at Halamshiral. It was a much needed shift in the powers and if Gaspard suffered in chains for it, so be it. It didn't hurt to watch the man strangle as he stood on his tiptoes, the bodies of hundreds to prop him up. There was certainly no shortage of elven bodies in that pyre.

He ran his hand back through his braided hair, fussing with the strands as he closed his eyes. In the silence of the balcony, he heard footsteps and felt a comforting great weight come up beside him. He opened his eyes and looked up, Bull standing there with glass of wine in his hand, the liquid matching both their outfits.

“Thought you could use a drink.” Bull told him and Dimitri graciously took the glass.

“I thought you would have gotten rid of your fancy outfit by now.” He spoke, looking him up and down, and Bull chuckled, waving his hand.

“I would have, but the party isn’t over and everyone isn’t trashed enough to not care.” He replied and Dimitri chuckled, taking a sip.

“I’m sure Josephine would be furious with you.” He idly teased and Bull laughed, shaking his head.

“She’s still all wound up with the nobles, trying to help figure out the mess you created.” Bull shook his head and Dimitri cocked an eyebrow.

“It was a mess when we arrived.” Dimitri huffed in response, taking another sip of his wine before he took a mouthful.

“Damned nobles...” Bull cursed and Dimitri snickered, easily nodding in return.

“Love to hate them, even though we’ll need them to fight a ‘Vint.” Dimitri ran his hand through his hair again, leaning back against the railing. His eyes were heavy, the bags underneath them dark in the dim light. Everything about him looked heavy from the uncomfortable velvet he was wrapped in, to the actions his hands had bore. Bull took the glass from his hand, setting it aside to hold both of his hands in his. They were warm and Dimitri held tight to them.

“Hey, you did good,” he reassured him, tucking a stray braid back. “Could’ve gone better with the Empress, but we got what he came for. You did good Kadan.” Bull told him with a genuine smile that made something in Dimitri’s chest flutter like he had felt in a very long time. It had been creeping up on him more and more lately, the pit that fluttered in his stomach while making him feel like he was going to lose his feet out from under himself. He wasn’t going to say what the sensation was, even though he knew very, very well what it meant.

“You still not going to tell me what Kadan means?” Dimitri asked and Bull grinned, leaning down to kiss his forehead and his cheek, the touch lingering on his skin long after it had faded.

“Nope...” He spoke in his ear and Dimitri snickered, leaning back as he playfully batted him away.

“Tease.” He joked and Bull grinned, easily wrapping an arm around Dimitri’s waist to pull him close. Still he leaned back, but Bull leaned in close to match.

“Say that again, Kadan?” He grinned and Dimitri laughed, pressing his hands to Bull’s chest even as he pulled him closer.

“You’re a tease...!” He spoke louder and Bull laughed, placing another kiss to Dimitri’s cheek and then his lips. Dimitri smiled into the kiss, hand stroking along his jaw until they both pulled away. Their foreheads pressed together, a brief silence holding between them in the dim light of the balcony.

“Come on...” Bull broke the tender silence, pulling away only just so, one of his arms still wrapped around Dimitri’s waist. “The music finally is good enough for dancing.” He smiled genuinely down at him.

The feeling once again welled up inside of Dimitri, the words that came with it barely on the end of his tongue. They hid just behind his teeth and he swallowed them back down to his chest. They could live there a while longer, unseen and unspoken. Another thing to hide behind his own mask.

“I would love to.” He said instead, a smile mirroring his own. Bull ushered him forward, his hand never leaving his waist.

It was enough for now to leave the words unsaid.

[scurvgirl]

Quick write with an action piece practice, no editing. Very rough, but I’m pleased with how this turned out!

Elodie Amell x Alistair Theirin.

Premise: Alistair is left in the Fade at Adamant, Elodie is not accepting that. Featuring: a big ol’ spider getting its butt whooped. 

She stands over the remains of Adamant Fortress, laid waste by the Inquisition’s forces. It is a mess of black rubble and bad memories. Corrupted magic lingers, pooling around the bodies and bones that still lay strewn across the landscape. They’re all unclaimed, almost all are Wardens, denied the right to die fighting darkspawn.

Elodie does not pity them. They chose their fates, they chose to ally themselves wrongly, to use blood magic to bind themselves to demons of all things. She wonders when the wardens went astray. She recalls Avernus and Sophia and thinks that perhaps this is the true face of her organization. Power through any means to destroy evil. But she cannot help but feel these courses of actions are wrong. She spared Avernus, it seemed like the right thing to do considering the sentiment of his bond to the order. But Elodie was young, still fresh out of the Circle, limping after the loss of so many at Ostagar….

Looking at the remains of the wardens makes her realize she would not spare many of them. She would not have spared Clarel or many of the mages. Those who were slated for sacrifice, of course, but those who were complicit or active in this whole ordeal...they have earned these graves.

But there is one who has not earned any of this.

The letter still burns in her heart. Leliana’s words scrawled across a page, offered kindness in an attempt to soften the blow. But the news -

It brings me the greatest sorrow to write this. Alistair chose to remain in the Fade to buy the Inquisitor and Hawke time to escape. He sacrificed himself for the greater good - for the rest of the wardens.

She clenches her fist and allows her tears to fall. It isn’t right that he had to pay for the crimes of these wardens. He would never in a thousand years ever condone such things. Dammit, Alistair is good! Out of everything she has seen, of all the things that ought to have been good turned wrong or bad, he was always good.

She wipes at her face, internally cursing the Maker. How could He allow such a thing to happen? How could he allow such a genuinely good man die because of the actions of evil idiots? Either He doesn’t exist or is the worst demon of them all.

Elodie swallows and allows her anger to flow through her, to reach into the pit of her being. It stirs within her power, heightens it to a pique. Her fists unclench as she exhales, feeling the magic of the place. There is so much that lingers here. The Veil is thin, and she can use it all.

Elodie Amell is the Hero of Ferelden, and she has lost enough good in her life.

The lyrium she drank earlier deepens her power reserves and she uses all of it now, channeling it into an explosive burst.

“I rend the Veil, sunder it open, show me my love and deliver him thus,” she chants, starting out softly. Her voice grows as the concentration of her power grows, reaching past the Veil and into the Fade. She reaches for the spirits that cling to this place - spirits of horror and betrayal and rage. They all flock to her, twisting around her magic, trying to burrow into her. She sucks at their energy, funneling it into her own.

It is ironic how she always told her teachers that her spirit healing training would prove her helpful, not dangerous. She does not feel helpful now, but exceptionally dangerous. She has learned to avoid possession, only to harness their energy to empower her spells. Now, she practically drains them dry of their magic as she forces her magic against the Veil. As thin as it is, it still resists her. She pushes harder, barely noticing the dying spirits around her.

“I REND THE VEIL, SUNDER IT OPEN, SHOW ME MY LOVE AND DELIVER HIM THUS!” She shouts, funneling in more power, siphoning more from the spirits. They shatter like glass around her as she screams.

The Veil splits open wide, revealing a hideous spider-like monster. It turns its arrayed gaze to her with a shriek. It moves from over its prone prey - Alistair.

Elodie pants, exhaustion imminent, but she’s not done yet. She brought two staves with her and she uses one to keep the opening to the Fade propped open while she grasps the other and steps into the Fade.

The raw energy slams into her, more than simply rejuvenating her but awakening her to power she has never known. She grasps that power, focuses it into her staff, and directs it to the giant demon arachnid.

It screams at her, lurching forward even as she blasts it with energy.

“You think to take him from me?!” She shouts, “I have lost enough!” She whips around, spiraling her magic to burrow deep into the carapace.

It screeches in pain, lunging itself toward her in a frenzy. Blood oozes from its wounds and she pummels more magic into those wounds, deepening them, widening until it has lost so much of its disgusting form that it struggles to move.

Her lungs feel like they are aflame with strain, her magic feels raw and nearly depleted. She has to get to Alistiar, she has to -

The demon swipes at her and sends her flying. She slams against a rock, the air forced from her lungs. Her vision spins and for a moment she thinks she will lose it all - her love, her life.

But she has more tricks up her sleeve than the demon knows, and it is no longer towering over Alistair.

Elodie lifts her hand and directs her magic to a familiar place within her. It is warm and bright, and she directs to Alistair. A beam of brilliant light shoots from her hand and washes over him.

The demon lurches toward her, closer and closer. Elodie forces the healing to take hold over Alistair, willing him to be better. Please live, just live, the world is not right without you in it. I love you, I can’t lose you too.

His head moves and she could cry. She hears his groan just as the beam of light flickers then disappears.

“Alistair,” she whispers, but it echoes and she can tell he hears it because when he raises himself up into a kneeling position, he looks over to her. His eyes widen with recognition that quickly turns to horror.

“Ellie.”

The demon roars, pulling her attention to it. Elodie stumbles to her feet, grasping her staff to shroud herself in a barrier.

“Time to die, demon,” she murmurs. But Alistair manages to beat her to the punch by rushing ahead with his sword, carving into it with a wild cry.

“You can’t have her!” He shouts, making her smile. Even after being apart, their hearts still beat the same.

Elodie pulls the barrier into herself as the demon turns to face Alistair. She shoots the power out and back into it, sinking deep into the demon until it collapses, no longer able to carry itself. Alistair drives his sword into it, hacking it to pieces until it gives a last dying shudder and turns to black dissolving goo.

Dead.

Alistair stumbles back, his armor in tatters, dried blood all over his body. He’s alive. Elodie reaches her hand out, too tired to run. He seems more than willing to cross the distance, jumping over the puddle of goo before running to her. She opens her arms just in time to be pulled into his embrace. He spins her around and she feels the world get better bit by bit.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers.

“How did get here? Nevermind, I probably don’t want to know, all that matters is that you’re here. Always coming to my rescue.” He nuzzles her neck into her hair and she sighs.

“As wonderful as it is to see you, we don’t have much time. We need to get through the opening,” she says. Alistair sighs but nods, letting her down. He takes her hand and together they leave the Fade through the opening.

When they land in the waking world, once more surrounded by Adamant’s rumble, Alistair looks pained. It strikes her as it often does how much older they are now. No longer at they the barely twenty-year-olds who had little understanding of their places in the world. So much has changed, so much more will change.

There is one thing that she knows will not change, though, and it is her love for him and his for her. Elodie squeezes Alistair’s hand.

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you too,” he replies. Elodie smiles then sways.

“That’s great because I think i need you to carry me back to camp.” Just like that, her knees give out. He’s thankfully quick, sweeping her up into his arms.

“Tell me the way, my dear.” She rests her head against his chest, relaxing for the first time in weeks.

If the Maker deems to take Alistair away from her, Elodie thinks, He’s going to have to go through her first.

[fanwrittenwords]

Lost and Found

   “And when the mountain falls, what about you?” Honey gold watched the young Dalish woman with growing concern as silence was the answer. Cullen felt his stomach twist in knots with the thought that she might not come back. He had grown fond of this woman in their short time together, probably more than he should have. She had been caught in the middle of a war, suspected in having a hand in the death of so many lives, and still had turned to their aid. She had no true belief in their Maker, or Andraste, and yet she was willing to sacrifice herself if necessary. “Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way out...” Cullen turned and began ordering the Inquisition to follow Chancellor Rodderick to safe passage away from Haven and the avalanche that would take place. He quickly ordered some of the soldiers to prepare the trebuchet and let Fiolora know what the plan was.

    “If we are to have a chance--if you are to have a chance--let that thing hear you.” Honey met forest green for a moment and so many thoughts ran through the former templar’s mind. Cullen wanted to make Fiolora swear that she would do whatever it took to make her way back to them...to him. He watched briefly as Fiolora, Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian headed out of the Chantry and then turned to the evacuation efforts.

*****

    As the last of the villagers cleared the path that the Chancellor had led them down, Cullen signalled to Leliana. He almost held his breath as she let the fire arrow fly. He hoped that Fiolora and the others had survived this long, that she was able to fire the trebuchet, that she had found an escape route for them. Unfortunately only time would tell.

*****

    Fiolora felt the pain radiate through her spine as her back hit the wooden side of the trebuchet and her eyes landed on the nearby sword. She grabbed it and scrambled to her feet, using the trebuchet to help her keep balance. Her left hand burned from where Corypheus had tried to remove her Mark. She could feel her energy beginning to wane. There was no way possible to face Corypheus and an archdemon. She was certain that she had failed.

    Her gaze shifted away from Corypheus and towards the mountains as a light caught her eye. Hope rose in her heart. They had cleared the path and everyone would be safe. The young Dalish sent a silent prayer to Mythal that her companions would find a safe way out of Haven.

     “And you. I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”  She spotted the lever for the trebuchet and a plan came together in her mind as he spoke. She brought the sword up and readied to attack.

    “You expect us to surrender and kneel. We will not. You’ll face us all. When we choose!” Fiolora quickly spun and kicked the lever and then took off running. She knew in her mind that there was no way for her to outrun the avalanche, but she would not stop. She felt more pain as she was tossed forward and fell into darkness.

*****

    All eyes were turned to Haven as the ground trembled beneath their feet.  There was a slight cheer that went into the air as the mountain side began to give... The Herald had succeeded! The plan had worked!

    A small hand landed on a broad shoulder and the Commander turned his gaze from the avalanche, only to find Leliana at his side. She pointed towards something in the distance and he was just able to make out the dragon as it fled. Dread pooled at the pit of his stomach, instinct telling him that Corypheus had escaped, and he worried for their companions. A shout from the other side of their makeshift camp drew his attention and the nearby crowd parted quickly, allowing him to see Seeker Cassandra headed for himself and Leliana. He opened his mouth to speak but the Seeker's words made him freeze.

    "Is she here? Did the Herald make it back to camp?" Cassandra's eyes were wide with worry while her voice remained calm even as she caught her breath from their flight. Cullen could only stare at her, almost as if unable to comprehend her words, while Leliana responded.

    "She is not with you?"

    "We all ran right before the dragon attacked us." Varric and Dorian joined Cassandra's side as she spoke and it was obvious none of them had rested since being separated.

   "There was an explosion after that... We thought Lora had used it to get away but the trebuchet didn't fire until well after..." Varric's voice died out slowly and once again all eyes turned to Haven. Whispered worries floated through their camp as the news spread. How would they continue without the Herald?

   "Post watches and sentries all around camp... Keep eyes and ears open for any signs of life..." Cullen's voice rang out, an order that would not be ignored. Movement followed shortly as soldiers went for their new posts. "We will send out small search parties once we are sure the snow has settled,  soldiers paired with Leliana's agents." Leliana nodded, then went to spread the news. He prayed that whatever power that had helped her survive the explosion at the Conclave had been with her when the avalanche began.

*****

    A groan of pain escaped between bloodied lips as green eyes opened to see nothing but stone. The Dalish woman slowly took stock of her surroundings, even as surprise that she was alive grew in her mind. Her left arm gave in as she tried to push herself up and pain radiated up from her Mark. No, it was the Anchor, that was what that monster had called it. She finally managed to make it to her feet and wished she hadn't as the room spun.

    Fiolora took stock of what injuries she could see and feel. She generally hurt all over but her side would twinge with every breath in. Neither legs nor arms felt broken, which was a plus in her opinion. Her surroundings would go fuzzy and the room would tilt or spin on her but she was able to keep her footing as she began to try and find a path out.

    A green glow ahead caught her attention and she almost yelled out in frustration. She was injured, with no weapons and no companions. How was she supposed to make it past these wraiths? Frustration turned to anger and the Anchor began to burn hot under her skin. All she had wanted was to help keep her clan safe from the war that humans had began. She didn't even remember what happened once she made it to the Conclave! And now she had the Gods forsaken Mark that Corypheus wanted and was alone.

    In her anger she flung out her marked hand, intending to send a fireball at the wraiths, because at least she had her magic. Shock covered the anger as instead of the warm red of flame, a sickly green rift formed above the wraiths. She watched as they were drawn into it and then the minor rift sealed again, leaving her safe and unharmed. She sent up a silent thank you and pushed herself onward.

*****

    When the first scouts reported that the snow seemed stable enough, several pairs of volunteers raced out of the camp, ready to search for their missing Herald. As word had spread, several had stepped forward to join the impending search. Cullen had wanted to go out there himself but Leliana had convinced him that it was best if they stay behind to help coordinate everyone else.  Instead he watched as each of their companions left their camp leading the small search parties in multiple directions. As each left, he prayed that she was found alive.

*****

    After what felt like hours of walking, Fiolora found an abandoned campsite. She pushed herself forward fast, falling to her knees next to the fire pit. A trembling hand reached out and felt for any sign of warmth but she felt none. Muttering to herself about the coals, she pushed to her feet and froze as the sound of howls reached her again. She cursed not having a weapon and began her trek once more. At least she had found some sign of life.

*****

    As each scouting group came back, his heart, and the mood of the camp, darkened. He could see it in their eyes as they tracked each group that arrived without the Herald. He marked off another group from the list they had made of all those going out and his head hung low.

    "They are not all back yet, Commander, there is still yet hope." Josephine's voice had him turning from the table.

    "Yet as every hour passes that hope dwindles, even though I pray it continues to hold."

    "There are still others that have not reported back yet. Neither Cassandra nor Varric have returned. And last I heard Iron Bull had his Chargers out there as well."

    "True..." Cullen let out a deep sigh. "It amazes me some, how at first everyone was willing to blame her for the explosion, myself included. Yet now so many have volunteered to be a part of the search, even those who were too injured to be of use."

    "It is something about her." Josephine agreed with him. Cullen turned to follow her gaze when it shifted from him and he cursed as he watched Krem from the Chargers returning, their group empty handed as well.

    "One of them will find her, Cullen... They must."

*****

    Fiolora's shivering had almost stopped, and she knew it was a bad sign. She had been out in the cold for far too long. Where at first she had cursed not having a blade, now she was glad of it for her hands were too numb to hold one.  It had been hours since the abandoned campsite and she feared that maybe she had gone the wrong way, but she couldn't stop or give up.

    The ground had become uneven now, and she was having to brace herself on rocks to keep her footing. It was an accident that she found a second campsite when she stumbled going around rocks. She nearly wept when she felt some dying warmth to the embers. It took some strength, but she managed to push herself to her feet. She couldn't be very far behind now.

    She pushed herself onward even as her sight went blurry and spots appeared in her vision. She was so sure that she could hear people not far off. Fatigue pulled at her however and her legs gave in, bringing her to her knees as the world began to go dark. This was her end, so close yet so far. Sound faded with the light as her body gave in to its trials.

*****

    Cullen turned as Cassandra approached, the quick shake of her head making his heart heavy. She was the last of the scouting parties sent out. He braced his hands on the table before him, wanting to scream out in rage over the loss. He should have insisted on a different plan, found another way. He should not have let her walk out those doors...

    "Ser! Someone's approaching the camp!" Cullen's head shot up and he went running for the sentry, Cassandra hot on his heels. He barely stopped to allow the man to point him in the right direction. They had sent out so many patrols, was it possible they had simply not gone the right direction. As he reached the pass that had been pointed out he saw as the figure collapsed to their knees, and his heart soared. He'd know them anywhere.

    "There! It's her!" His shout rang out through the camp and brought people to their feet. He didn't stop until he reached her, his arms wrapping around her as her body gave in to fatigue.

    “Thank the Maker!” Cassandra landed next to them, Varric handing her a blanket to place around their Herald. The rest of their companions gathered in close, relief clear on all their faces. "Get Mother Giselle! Tell her the Herald is injured!"

    "We must get her warm." Cullen stood with the help of Dorian and Blackwall and then fell in behind Bull as he cleared a path. Cullen held her close, barely resisting the urge to place a kiss upon her brow. She had survived and returned to them.

    "You're safe, Lora..." His voice was a soft whisper against her hair, a reassurance to himself.

[caffeine-cowboy]

OCtober Day 8: Comfort

Going against my instinct here and not doing a romantic fic! This is a scene I’ve had rattling around in my head for a while now, and this prompt was a really good excuse to actually write it.

OC: Tahira Adaar (Dragon Age) 

“Inquisitor, what have you done?” The doors to the war room flew open and Cullen stormed in, face like thunder. Tahira looked up, blood running cold.  

“What?”

“That mission you sent us on was a complete disaster! Do you have any idea how many lives were lost, and for what?”

“Commander, I-”

“They were good soldiers! What am I going to tell their families? Their friends in the Inquisition?”

“The commander is right. This was a disaster in more ways than one.” Leliana stepped forwards, arms folded and eyes like flint. “Your actions lead directly to the discovery of no less than seventeen of my agents.”

“W-what?”

“They’re dead, Inquisitor.”

“And I can hardly begin to describe the political situation. Pursuing that last alliance was a complete waste of time, and has isolated us among some of the most crucial circles,” Josephine said, scribbling furiously on her writing board.

“I - I don’t understand,” Tahira said, feeling her blood pounding in her ears as panic set in. What had she done? What had she blundered? Where had she gone wrong?-

- Tahira awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. Untangling herself from her sheets, she swung her legs out of bed and put a hand to her head, wiping away the cold sweat. A dream. Just a dream. But one that could become real far, far too easily. The heavy feeling of dread still sat in the pit of her stomach; her hands shook as she pulled on her boots and coat. She didn’t know where she was going, she just knew she had to get outside. There was no hope of sleep now.

Stepping out into the cool, quiet night air went a little way towards calming her, although she still felt on the verge of tears as she paced through the courtyard, meaning to head up to the walls. However, a light in the stables made her pause. Walking over, she peered through the door, left ajar, and saw Blackwall carving by candlelight. She pushed open the door a little more and he looked around, surprised, then softened when he saw her.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Tahira shook her head without saying anything, worried she’d start crying if she tried to explain, and she couldn’t do that. What would he think of her, the Inquisitor as of two weeks ago, crying like a child?

“Well, I certainly don’t mind the company,” Blackwall said, knocking another chip of wood away. He glanced up after a few moments more. “Want to talk about it?”

“Just… just a bad dream,” she said, swallowing hard.  

“I understand. Sometimes you just need to clear your head. It’s why I do this,” he gestured with his tools.

“Yes, I… I don’t think I’m getting back to sleep, so…” Tahira said.

“Take your time. I imagine you must be rushed off your feet at the moment, what with being made Inquisitor and all.” At this, Tahira felt the tears she’d been so desperately holding back rise up, choking off anything she would’ve said. Without even knowing, he’d hit so close to the problem that it sent her over the edge. She clapped a hand over her mouth to try and hold back the sob, but it came out anyway as tears started running down her face. Instantly, Blackwall turned to face her, surprise and alarm written all over his face. “Inquisitor…”

“Oh, Blackwall…” she sobbed, and took a step forward. After just a moment’s hesitation, he closed the gap with a hug.

“It’s all right. You have a good cry. I think you need it,” he said as she wrapped her arms around him in return. Tahira allowed herself to remain like that for a while, crying harder than she had in a long time, heaving in rattling breaths between the sobs until they began to slow to sniffs and hiccups. As much as she felt like a fool, as much as she knew she must look an absolute state with her veiny, watery eyes and running nose - it was still cathartic.

“Oh, Blackwall, I think - I think I’m doing e-everything wrong…” she choked out eventually, sitting down on the hay. He joined her, sat opposite, and handed her a handkerchief.  

“And what’s got you thinking that?”

“I am! I - I don’t kn-know anything about any of this, not leading o-or wars or the Chantry or this-” she gestured wildly with her marked hand “- and I’m doing it all wrong! I don’t know anything compared to - to Cassandra, o-or Leliana, or any of the advisors! I don’t understand why they wanted me! All I have is this stupid m-mark, b-but everyone still wants me to make all of these huge decisions about wars and politics and the f-fate of Thedas but I’m just guessing! I don’t know what I’m doing or what p-people want and soon I’m going to make the wrong decision about something and cause a disaster. Everybody’s expecting me to be this - this hero, this figure, but I’m j-just a stupid mercenary who was in the wrong place at the wrong damn time and got a stupid glowy mark on my hand, and so many people are going to die because of my mistakes!”

The silence in the stables once she finally stopped seem deafening. Blackwall stared at the ground for a long moment, then met her eyes. She stared back, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re selling yourself short. I think…” he paused and shifted so he was beside her, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “I think in the past couple of weeks, so many people have been asking things of you that it’s come to a point where you can hardly take it. It’s a heavy burden, but… it’s not one you have to bear alone.”

“But I’m the Inquisitor now.”

“And you’ve got advisors. You said yourself that it feels like they know more than you. All that means is you have a cadre of excellent teachers to hand.”

“I’m not - they’re experts. They should be running things, I don’t know anything. I’ve always just been… the muscle.”

“But you don’t have to be. You’re here  because the world has put you in exceptional circumstances - but you’ve risen to them. What you did in Haven is not the action of someone who doesn’t know anything, of someone who can’t lead.”

“I just… what if my mistakes lead to a disaster?”

“We do the best we can with what we’ve got. That’s all anyone can ask for. And remember - you’re not doing this alone. You have your advisors… your friends.” Tahira looked at him and managed a wan smile.

“You’re right about that.”

“You’re brave, and skilled, and far more charismatic than you give yourself credit for. You’re in charge for far more reasons than just that mark on your hand, trust me. I think all of us who follow you… we do it because we trust in you. In what you can do,” Blackwall looked at her with a rare small smile. “That trust isn’t misplaced just because you can’t carry the whole world on your shoulders.”

As he finished speaking, Tahira couldn’t help but pull Blackwall into another crushing hug.

“Thank you, Blackwall,” she said after a long moment. “You… have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

“And I didn’t just say it because I thought you needed to hear it. It’s true. I’m here… because I believe that you can make the world better. And if there’s any way I can help you, I’ll do it.”

Tahira wiped away a few last tears, but these ones were shed for a different reason.

“I - I don’t know what else to say. Thank you. I… I feel a bit better about things.”

“We should get some rest. Things often look better in the morning.”

“Yes… you’re right.”

“Goodnight, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said, and for once the title didn’t press down on her. It lifted her up.

“Goodnight,” she replied, and meant it.

[authorellenmint]

Fic request

Alistair gets his BBQ on.

Armed with fork and tongs, Alistair stood proud before the potbelly smoker spewing delectable meaty and drool-inducing scents into the air. Strapped across his chest was an apron bearing the words “Tender Succulent & Natural Aged, And the BBQ’s Not Bad Either!” He’d already managed to get a sauce stain over the word aged, not that anyone much cared.

“Everybody,” he shouted to the meandering throng, a smile widening on his face, “I want to welcome you all to my first ever Bee Bee Queue.”

Morrigan snorted into the lip of her beer, her yellow eyes ripping through the man, “If everyone does not wind up poisoned before the night is over I shall be surprised.” She then tipped her beer back, the imported alcohol swilling down her throat.

Scoffing, Alistair crossed his arms, “As if. Ain’t like we’re letting you near the food to do your evil witchy things to it.”

With measured steps, Sten crossed to the smoke-belching rig and muttered, “Is this your pit? It’s puny. The Qunari will dig out a beach and bury ten hogs in the sand for nearly a day, the heat of the sun melting the meat to proper tenderness. This…this cannot hold little more than a few piglets.”

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Alistair wrapped a hand around the Qunari inspecting the meat. Shoving Sten away before he tried to sneak a piece of pork, he said, “Best I could do, sorry. The HOA was against me tearing up my yard, and my neighbors, dumping twenty tons of sand in the hole, then murdering a pig in the driveway.”

“Pity,” Sten snarled, stomping off to stand beside Morrigan. Without a word, the witch handed the Qunari another beer. He popped off the not-screw cap with his thumb.

“Ah, Alistair,” Zev slid in where the Qunari once stood, his hands wrapped around the cheapest beer one could buy. “What shall we be enjoying on this fine summer evening? Hamburgers? Hot dogs?”

“Hot…” Alistair stuttered, his head whipping in the gnat-infested breeze. “Blighted hell, no. Hamburgers and hot dogs are grilling. Grill-ing. This is real BBQ,  right BBQ, just without the whole sand, shovels, and a dozen shirtless qunari strangling a pig part.” Sten only snorted at the barbarians unable to offer up a proper feast.

“A shame,” Zev turned away from the grumbling Qunari so his eyes locked in on Alistair’s, “I was looking forward to tasting your sausage.”

“There is no sausage! Only pulled pork, more tender than butter, and a whole rack of ribs,” he kept yanking open the smoker’s door to rub yet another streak of sauce over them, which he’d been tending to for over a day.

“No, I…” Zevran tried to interrupt him, but Leliana gripped onto his shoulder.

“There’s no point, Zev. He won’t understand.”

“É vita,” the elf sighed, returning to guarding the card table laden in paper plates and cutlery.

“Don’t think I can’t see you nosing about in there, Leliana,” Alistair warned. “No sneaky tastes until it’s ready.”

The ex-sister only smiled serenely at the man armed with a bbq fork. “You’re imagining things, Alistair.”

“If you were ten feet tall and belching Old Mac Donald while clowns circled around your feet, sure. You trying to steal a bit of pork out from under me, not so much,” he brandished the fork near her nose, not about to back down for anything. Admitting defeat, Leliana held her empty hands up and stepped back.

“Alistair!” Wynne chastised from the sidelines, throwing down a tupperware dish and then bustling to him. “Are there no vegetables here? No salads or greens of any kind?”

“Uh,” he scratched at the back of his head with the tongs, then paused, “I think Oghren brought some potato crisps. That’s a vegetable.” At the attention, the dwarf held up his thumb then belched. He’d taken the BYOB to heart and brought his own cask, which also served as a chair.

Wynne shuddered at the lack of healthy options, “You’re going to put yourself in the ground eating this way, young man.”

“Better be careful not to do it around Sten, or I’ll be the guest of honor at his feast. Right? Right,” as Wynne wouldn’t back down Alistair began to melt, “Okay, maybe there’s an apple or something in the fridge?” He turned to his love, who stood with arms wrapped around a fire extinguisher. All she did was cock an eyebrow at him and shift her stance.

“Look, this is a BBQ, a party. We’re here to eat tasty food that might shorten your life a bit. You don’t go to these to eat rabbit food. It’s about celebrating, enjoying life.”

“Yeah!” Oghren shouted.

“And I’m suddenly rethinking all my life choices at this point,” Alistair added, shivering at the dwarf agreeing with him. He heard the sound of metal hinges whining and spun to watch as the roof of his smoker closed. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” Leliana slunk back to stand beside the Warden. “Incidentally,” she raised up her fists, revealing metal claws stuck to both her knuckles, “your pork is now shredded.”

“You?” Alistair spun back, inspecting the BBQ with his body acting as a shield so the others couldn’t see. “How did you do that so quickly?”

Leliana shrugged as if it was nothing important. With a careful twirl of her fingers, she excised up her abandoned glass of wine and turned to the Warden. “A fire extinguisher?”

“With him, I like to be prepared,” she patted the metal can.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Alistair added a last drop of the special sauce he’d been slaving over for two weeks and finally turned to the gathered masses. “Ladies, gentlemen, whatever Morrigan is,” he smiled at the scowling witch, “I’m pleased to pass out…” He turned to heft up a mass of shredded pork in his tongs, “the very first BBQ of the season!”

Polite clapping rang out from the hungry crew, hands grabbing up plates. The pork smelled delicious, a tangy bite hanging upon the meaty flavors melded with hickory and pecan. Ribs so huge they looked like he swiped them from the Jurassic period filled out the waning plates, everyone grinning madly and aching for a bite.

Just as Alistair topped off the last plate, he turned to gaze out at the friends (and co-workers) who joined him for this summer kick-off. Which was when an ember kicked off of the coals, landed on his novelty oven mitt shaped like a lobster, and erupted into flames. Alistair’s eyes widened in shock, a scream beginning in his throat, when white foam splattered through the air to smother down the fire.

Another two shots sprayed out, making certain the fire was out, when his love placed the fire extinguisher on her hip and smiled. Wrapping a hand around her waist, Alistair smiled, “What would I do without you?”

“Burn the house down,” was her logical response before kissing the giddy fool.

“All right everybody,” Alistair slapped his hands together, “let’s eat!”