#because it's the only song with elven lyrics leliana knows

[nightwingshero]

Athera/Solas? (and I'd also love to extend that to any of your other DA ships that you'd love to talk about too! )

Thank you, love!

Athera x Solas = x: Dream of Me

So, they’re playlist is actually Meet Me In My Dreams. But it’s a play off of Dream A Little Dream of Me and Meet Me in the Woods. Songs...yes. And it was honestly so close to being Once Upon A Dream, because Lana Del Rey’s cover is just...them. Anyway, the reason I chose this is because well...the Haven scene where you find out you’re actually dreaming? It honestly really got me, and I was still like...baffled by it, so that’s part of why Athera has her name (it means “part of a dream”). Athera herself isn’t a Dreamer, but her grandmother is, and she would often daydream (as she often did) walking the Fade like her crazy grandmother. But of course, her grandmother walking the Fade only added to the delusions she had, so...yeah. Solas and Athera meet often in her dreams, and he watches over her (and that’s how he finds out about their twins) after the events of Trespasser. She often looks forward to seeing him in her dreams, where things seem to be easier for him, and if he’s sleeping at the many elven ruins they come across, she’ll keep watch, and then draw as he describes what he saw. Honestly, they’re just so cute.

Evune x Cullen = x: the wolf and the lion

Alright, so Evune and Athera are cousins, and there’s a running joke (which kind of started with Felassan) that they’re the wolves of the Lavellan clan. Athera has a white wolf and Halla aesthetic going for her, and Evune has a dark/black wolf and owl going for her (Athera’s love for Halla plays into her having the Ghilan’nain vallaslin, and Evune’s love for wolves/owls and being a hunter  is the reason she has Andruil’s...that and the story of how they’re connected...I can go into more detail with that later on). But the point is that Evune is the Wolf of the Lavellan clan (with Athera being one too, but she’s more a wolf in Halla’s clothing wink wink), and Cullen is known as the Lion of Fereldon because of how fierce he is in battle and such. Together, they’re the wolf and the lion. Their playlist is actually called The Black Wolf of Lavellan and the Lion of Fereldon. At least until I think of something better. 

Zander x Dorian = ????

I haven’t really decided on this one just yet. Zander (whose faceclaim is Jensen Ackles) is a rogue mage (a little bit of both...he’s a decent dualist) that is working with Fiona as her right hand with the mage rebellion. He joins the Inquisition with Fiona when Athera decides to take the mages in. He’s a necromancer, just like Dorian, and he’s...annoyingly sure of himself and a bit arrogant and stubborn. Charming as can be when he wants...he drives Dorian nuts at first (and vice versa), but honestly, they’re so damn cute together. Zander helps him with coming to terms with his issues with his father though, and they have more in common than they think. So it’s really adorable. I’ve considered using x: time of the season for their ship name, because when I’m lacking something clever, I’ll resort to song names or lyrics. Spooky Spooky Skeleton has made it to their playlist though. That I will say. I don’t know...I might use People Are Strange by The Doors since its like...the first song on Zander’s playlist...hmmm.

Thyra, Halesta, and Rhaenys

No, they’re not a ship. They’re the OCs that I’m still kinda debating on when it comes to ships...but I felt bad for leaving them out (I’m so sorry, I feel like I’m breaking rules...I just wanted to talk about them). Thyra is an Avvar (very Viking-like) and I’m trying to ship her with Varric, though Iron Bull is making a decent case and I’m trying to keep Blackwall away with a stick. She’s a warrior, and drinks with Evune often at the tavern, and she challenges everyone to arm wrestling contests to prove she’s stronger than everyone. Often fights with Cassandra (not like how Evune does....coughwhoendsuphavingabarbrawlcough), sparring and training...and winning. I thought it would be fun to give Varric a warrior, but we’ll have to see. Halesta...is another Dalish mage, but she’s from Riverain. I’ve considered a few ships for her, like Dagna, Scout Lace Harding, and maybe Cole. Varric has also been a thought, though I don’t think so since Halesta is about 22. Halesta is a crafter, making potions all the time (and trying not to blow herself up with her experiments), and she’s soft. So soft. Solas takes her under his wing...but you learn that she was his spy the whole time. He helps her learn more magic and such, a mentor of sorts. But I have to think on her ship a bit more. Rhaenys...is my human noble (faceclaim is Lady Gaga...I did that on purpose)...who might either end up with Iron Bull, Leliana, or Josephine. I’m not sure just yet. She’s the one that grabs Cullen’s butt at the Winter Palace (and Evune’s reaction to that is just...oooof). She’s one of the noble’s that end up hanging around Skyhold, and she ends up helping Leliana with secrets she learned in the Game, and Josie with creating relationships and connections. They’re WIPs, but I love them very dearly. 

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Petrichor for Amal?

I recommend reading another drabble I wrote a bit back, Soak, for context before reading this because it lowkey is heavily related to that. Also one of the songs I was listening to while writing was Waste by Foster the People, and a few lines are directly inspired by some of the lyrics.

It was the small things Amal noticed about life outside the tower, at least what they could notice when their senses and mind weren’t numbed and foggy. All the mundane things their companions hardly noticed, but nearly brought them to tears at how foreign and new it was.

Conceptual things like freedom, and all that entailed. They could move around as they pleased, they could choose when to sleep, when and what to eat, what to wear, what they did. At first it was paralyzing, and it still was in a sense. Freedom almost felt containing and useless, like trying to fly with broken wings, like trying to move a muscle atrophied from years of disuse. They found themselves trying to do what they had done in Kinloch Hold, because they couldn’t do anything else--they didn’t know how to do anything else. Freedom felt like nothing had changed, only the painful knowledge that there were other options they couldn’t make use of. Like they were still in a cage, but know they knew there was a life outside they were missing out on. Everything had been fine before, they had thought.

It hadn’t though. All that happened in Kinloch Hold was not fine, was as far from fine as possible. They had just not known anything else, they hadn’t had anything to compare it to. So now with each new experience, a wave of sadness crashed over them and they were finally able to see with growing clarity just how bad life in Kinloch Hold was.

The price of freedom was the sickening realization that they had been in captivity. That, they decided had been worse than the Warden dreams or the knowledge that their years were now numbered.

It wasn’t always bad though.

The feeling of earth beneath their feet. The indescribable warmth the sun gave. Sunlight, pure sunlight, not filtered through tiny, dusty, high up windows. The vibrant colors of grass, trees, and flowers. The impossibly blue expanse of the sky, dotted with clouds. The way the colors of the sky turned to reds and oranges, pinks and gold that bled into each other at sunset.

They were sure one of these days their companions would grow sick of them, of their fascination at the sight of common things like birds. Often they waited for it, waited for reprimanding, for a slap on the wrist or worse, for the others to leave them, or make fun of them, or try and abuse their naiveté. It never came, though. 

Leliana always seemed eager to point out things, to share stories and show them new things. Zevran would smile as he watched them, had even spent some of his gold buying numerous beautifully illustrated reference books. Sten even seemed more patient with them than others, more likely to at least answer their questions. Ane’lun was by far the most accepting--he had been since they met on the way to Ostagar--and was more than happy to teach and show Amal new things. He talked of his clan, of what he knew of their mother, of things he learned as a ranger, showed Amal how to better care for their hair, taught him more of the elven language. For as stoic and sad Ane’lun was, he never seemed to be upset spending time with Amal, or watching them come to enjoy certain aspects of freedom, of nature.

Sometimes Morrigan seemed tired of their curiosity and questions about simple things, and maybe she had truly been at the beginning. She had changed a lot since joining their party, though; never raised her voice or used a harsh tone. At least not towards Amal. For as much as she hated answering others’ questions and seemed uninterested in any sort of romance, she hardly seemed to mind their countless questions or the nights they spent in her tent.

It had bothered her--or at least surprised her--when Amal stayed in her tent until morning, they could tell, and initially, she had taken to dismissing them. Maybe dismissing wasn’t the right word, she would just tell them that they were allowed to leave if they wish. It wasn’t an order, but after 21 years of being in Kinloch Hold, they treated such statements as orders. Not on purpose, maybe. Amal wasn’t entirely certain why they did, why they followed any order without thinking. 

Morrigan had noticed, maybe that was why she stopped dismissing them. She wanted to allow them to choose for themselves, they reasoned. They never imagined it was the other possibility, that she wanted them to stay, that she liked their presence.

That was the other pitfall of freedom. No matter how easily they adjusted to sunlight, to walking long distances, their mind was still at its base the same. They had spent ages four through twenty-seven in Kinloch Hold, at the mercy of Templars, hearing over and over again how mages were dangerous, how mages were monsters and unlovable. They had spent ages seventeen through twenty-seven nothing more than a ghost, being bled and manipulated by someone who claimed they loved them.

A thrall could be broken, the same with a lock, but decades of conditioning couldn’t be broken. At least not easily. 

They still flinched and cowered away from touch, from noise. Their mind still slipped out of their grasp for hours at a time. Their thoughts were still scrambled and disjointed. They were still a mage, and couldn’t shake the feeling that the world outside still just a cage, however larger and brighter.

Sometimes, though, they could manage to enjoy the moment. Enjoy the feeling of moving water when they bathed in streams, enjoy the colors of the sky, enjoy the sight of birds in flight. Enjoy the sudden joy of something new and wonderful and free before despair caught up to them and stole their mind.

It was a while into their traveling--Amal couldn’t tell, it was hard enough keeping track of the hours in a day--when it first rained. The thunder had woken them, frightened them, but after a few minutes, they found themselves sitting outside Morrigan’s tent, wearing nothing but their leggings. 

They remembered the feeling of warm rain, of their leggings soaking through, of mud beneath their feet. They remember Morrigan eventually coming out in the rain, coaxing them back inside. They remembered how they hadn’t flinched when she put a hand on their shoulder, how soft her words seemed, far softer than she usually spoke. She was warm too, like the rain, like the sun, and they couldn’t help how they leaned into her touch.

When morning came, Amal almost thought it had been a dream--they didn’t really have dreams though, nightmares on occasion, but never dreams. Their hair, though, was slightly damp, as was Morrigan’s, and she was sleeping closer to them than she normally did. As the morning light filtered in through the fabric of the tent, Amal slowly noticed a foreign, but pleasant smell.

Morrigan woke after them, she always did, as they always were up early for prayer. Usually, they went over to the main firepit and started one to cook breakfast, but today they waited outside Morrigan’s tent, sitting on a small stone.

“Morrigan,” Amal started when she eventually emerged from her tent.

She almost startled, seeming almost nervous, but Amal hardly noticed.

“D- do you know what that smell is? It’s- it’s like, something earthy and- and fresh,”

“‘Tis what some people call petrichor,” She said, seemingly avoiding looking at Amal, “It comes after the first rain in some time,” 

Petrichor. Later they would write the word in their notebook, along with Morrigan’s definition. Far too many pages of their notebook were filled with similar points, definitions or descriptions of new things they enjoyed. Things they discovered with their freedom. Every day the list seemed to grow.

Rain. Petrichor. The warmth Morrigan’s body radiated. The softness of her voice when she spoke to them that night.