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5lazarus · 4 years

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BTV OC Question Time - 2. Does your character have any fond family memories? If yes, tell me about one of them.

I had already gotten this question, so I decided to answer this as a story instead, and explore a character I don’t really care about--Hawke, who I always regarded as a way to explore Kirkwall and the other characters and the story at large, rather than a defined personalty by themselves. So here’s a story about Leandra and Hawke having a lot of fun at Hawke’s debut ball, and my take on Leandra--a woman who happily ran off with an apostate, who fought to keep her daughter from the Circle, and who saw her cousin Revka canonically devastated by losing all five of her children to the templars. Reading about the Amell family on the Wiki was a trip to be sure--hadn’t picked up on how Leandra’s father would’ve been Viscount if it weren’t for the discrimination against mages on my first playthrough! I posted on AO3 here, for the sake of convenience. But here’s the story!

“Oh hush,” Leandra scolds. “You look fine.” She stands behind her firstborn, watching them stare horrified at the mirror. They do not like their make-up, they do not like their hair, and they especially despise the doublet she picked out for them: too bad. Marrion inherited all of their father’s panache but not of his actual fashion sense. Luckily, Leandra is there to guide the way. She only wishes her mother were there to smooth over the connections, and Bethany teasing Carver with a falcon-feathered hat as they both complain they cannot come too. Hawke sees her face fall and sits up straighter in their chair. “I look like a peacock,” they complain. Leandra smiles, catching her own eye in the mirror, and fusses with the back of her child’s collar. Age has come to her too quickly. This is not how she imagined she would present her child at their first ball--but she has spent too much time Carver died drowning in that sea of regret. She still has Marrion. She forces a smile onto her face. “You look like the scion of the Amell family,” Leandra corrects. “If you want to look less like a peacock, don’t strut like one.” Mischievous, she produces a magnificent blue hat with a feather in its brim. She places it on Hawke’s head, and turns it to a jaunty angle. Hawke makes a horrified face. “Mother, no,” they say desperately. “You already put me into a turquoise doublet. I’m shiny. I won’t be able to turn without--blinding someone or whacking them in the face with that feather. And then they’re going to challenge me to a duel, and of course I’m going to win, but it’s embarrassing.” Leandra puts her hand on their shoulders. “Well, you wouldn’t wear the gown. The hat for that is smaller. You can hide a dagger in the brim, at least. As a hatpin! And if you hit them, well--challenge them to a duel! This is your debut, my love. You have to make a splash. A positive splash. Not a literal splash.” She remembers that the Viscount’s Gardens do have a duck pond--didn’t someone push Gamlen in, during her second cousin’s debut? She says repressively, “Please avoid the duck pond.” “I miss Lothering,” Hawke says. “I’ll take mucking out the stables over this.” Leandra rests her head against theirs, just for a moment, and closes her eyes. Hawke frowns at their reflection in the mirror. “Oh, Mother….” “I miss Lothering too,” Leandra says bracingly. Hawke reaches for her hand but Leandra pats them briskly on the shoulder. “No matter. It’s a shame Knight-Commander Meredith denied our request for Bethany to attend.” Hawke snorts. “If she even looked at it.” Leandra tenses. Templars have always unsettled her, ever since her cousin Amell was taken to the Circle, and Malcolm taught her to hate them. Meredith is the worst of that lot, strutting about on the backs of the nobility, bringing the worst fundamentalism back to the Marches. She tries to give her child as much distance as she needs, but she keeps finding that apostate’s manifesto in books about the house, and she finds herself agreeing. She can read between the lines of Bethany’s letters. The Circle must be destroyed--she wants her daughter back. She wasted so much time, running with Malcolm and her little girl--and poor cousin Revka and her five lost children. The Circle must be destroyed. “I wish your father were here,” she says foolishly. Malcolm had a dispensation, because of the deal he made with the Grey Wardens. The Wardens paraded him at the occasional ball, because he was as charming as their Marrion. He would have been able to charm even Meredith into letting Bethany out, she’s sure of it--or he would have broken her out, and they would have moved onto Rivain, or back to Weisshaupt. Hawke looks askance. “Did he ever go to parties with you?” Leandra laughs. “Once. Before the Wardens called him back. Not where I met him, of course. This was the fourth time.” She smiles at their reflection in the mirror. “By that point I had quite the crush. He was funny. And so much more grounded than the suitors my mother threw at me. I could actually see myself raising a family with him.” Grief rushes her, because they had it and lost and all that is left is Marrion, the last of the Hawkes, Carver is gone forever and Bethany is at the mercy of a madwoman and while she has Kirkwall, Kirkwall takes as much as it gives, and what more can she give away? She steels herself: Amells do not cry with make-up on. Neither do Hawkes, for that matter. Hawke gets up and pulls her into a hug. “And here we are,” they say. “My first ball.” Leandra sniffs and forces herself to laugh. Hawke looks like her, but with their father’s grandiose expressions. They have his smile and his way of waving his arms about, his sarcasm and sense of comedic timing. Sometimes Leandra feels like she is looking in the mirror. Then Marrion’s face will break into exactly the grin Malcolm makes when he knows he is saying something utterly absurd and is probably about to get punched, and it is as if he has entered the room and he isn’t dead, not really, when their child demands to be called by their name, when their child joyously lives his most chaotic impulses. “Yes, my love. We should send for the carriage--we want to be fashionably late, after all.” “But it’s a five minute walk,” Hawke says, puzzled. Leandra shakes her head fondly. “Ferelden. I should’ve taught you better. Let’s go.”

Leandra emerges from the carriage and smiles, drinking in the jasmine-scented night air. The du Parrys have always known how to throw a party. She steps aside to let Hawke out, who miraculously maintains an air of dignity as they step onto the ground. They look at her and she inclines her head. “Lead the way, love,” she murmurs, and threads her arm in theirs. Hawke wears turquoise, bringing out their sparkling blue eyes, while Leandra has dressed herself in something more sedate. She is a widow now, and has lost a child. Still, she won’t consign herself to black--Malcolm loved her peacock colors, and she does too, more confident in her violet and green and gold than Hawke is in their debut outfit. People pause, people stare, and she smirks as she hears the whispers behind the fans. She has always known how to make a splash. They are announced, and Leandra smirks at her title, Lady Hawke--she is proud to be an Amell and proud to be a Hawke, and even more proud how Marrion does not look back at her, but strides forward into the ballroom with perfect equanimity and grace. That, they inherited from her. She didn’t like to fight, but she could delay a bard, at the very least, and Marrion had proved an able student. Speaking of bards, the Viscount’s court is packed full of Orlesians, which is irritating. Her family had supported Perrin Threnhold, not just because of the magic that ran in their blood, but because they genuinely believed in the “free” part of the Free Marches. Worse than Orlesians, there is Grand Cleric Elthina, and Leandra curtseys at her, smiling curtly. Her father should have been Viscount, and would have, if it hadn’t been for the Divine intervening, if it hadn’t been for Meredith’s coup, if it hadn’t been for Elthina imprisoning poor old Perrin--but then, perhaps she would not have met Malcolm, perhaps she would not have adventured all over Ferelden, and had her children, and lost them too. Marrion whispers, “Is that a smile on your face, or a knife?” Leandra smiles thinly and says, “Hush your mouth. At least the Knight-Commander is not here.” She would have loved to debut Bethany, who is perhaps less of a peacock than Marrion but prettier. She hears a rustle and instinctively presses a hand to her bodice. She is wearing the amulet against poison her mother gave her, and she has a small blade. Cautiously, she turns, and her eyes widen, because it is her old friend DeLauncey, gray now, but still with that mischievous sparkle to her eyes. She blinks. DeLauncey is wearing an elaborate Orlesian-style mask, with antlers sticking out of the sides. “Messere Hawke, and your wonderful lady mother,” DeLauncey says, and flutters an Orlesian curtsey at them. Leandra mimics it. She had cut her dead after she left with Malcolm. She had not even answered her call when they moved to Hightown. She is too old to be disappointed, but still, it stings. Hawke bows extravagantly. Leandra rolls her eyes, and hides a laugh behind her fan as Marrion seizes DeLauncey’s hand. “Ah, to meet an old friend of my mother’s in the flesh!” they exclaim. “You’re even...more than the stories told. I do love your hat.”

Leandra coughs a laugh into her hand. Perhaps they did listen to her etiquette lessons after all. Shame it was only the ones on how to insult people, but isn’t that what Hawkes do? Malcolm would be proud. “Charming,” DeLauncey says. I know, Leandra thinks proudly, I know. But DeLauncey recovers herself and eyes Leandra and prices out her finery. “And thank you for the compliment--it is the latest from Halamshiral, hunted straight from the Dales! The antlers come from those wild-elf deer, the halla, I believe they’re called. But!” She raps her hand with her own fan. “You must pay me a visit soon, Lady Amell.” “Hawke,” Leandra says. “My name is Leandra Hawke.” DeLauncey blinks. “Yes. I’ve heard many stories about your journey from the Blight. Perhaps you would be interested in speaking at my salon next week. We are fundraising for the Chantry’s project in Lowtown, and it would be lovely to hear your experiences.” Lovely, Leandra thinks sourly. She never saw the Chantry give out alms but for the missionaries at the Qunari compound, and most of the Fereldens were still stuck in Darktown. “I could put you in touch with someone,” she says instead. She does not want to be stuck as the refugee-made-good; she is Bethann Amell’s daughter after all, and her father was almost the Viscount. “Lirene, perhaps,” Hawke says blandly, and then shakes out a fan and flutters at their face. Leandra rolls her eyes. She can imagine the sharp-tongued, no-nonsense unofficial almoner let loose amongst the Kirkwall aristocracy, particularly since Orlesian fashions and marriages are so in vogue. “Oh yes,” Leandra says. “We must introduce you.” She takes DeLauncey’s hand. “Come by the manse next week, and we’ll arrange things then.” DeLauncey looks at her sharply, but Leandra is already floating away, Hawke in tow, giggling behind their fans. “Mother,” Hawke says happily, “she’ll whip them. Maybe literally.” “I know,” Leandra giggles. “And she might bring that warden friend of yours, too.” “Maker,” Hawke snorts. “That’d go along as well as a house on fire.” “She does have an ugly house,” Leandra says happily. “An eyesore. It’ll be an excuse to remodel.” She pauses. “He won’t really burn the house down, will he? I know he glows, but he does have some self-control, yes?” Hawke shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound. Leandra feels her hair turn gray and decides that she will simply not think about it, not just yet. Then a Starkhaven burr calls out, and Leandra tenses as the Grand Cleric herself approaches in the wake of a knight in gleaming white armor. “Ah. Sebastian,” Hawke says. “Er. Nice to see you here, great party. Um. Maybe I introduce to you,” they flourish at Leandra, finally remembering their manners, “my lady mother, Lady Leandra Hawke, Lord Aristide Amell’s daughter. This is Sebastian Vale, Prince of Starkhaven.” They look at their mother significantly, and then cut their eyes down. Leandra follows Marrion’s gaze and coughs a laugh--the boy has Andraste’s face as a damn jockstrap. Free Marcher fashions certainly have changed. Quickly she looks back up and curtseys, though not too deeply--she knows the Vael family were pushed out, and her father had taught her to hedge her bets. She glances at the Grand Cleric and nods coolly. There is no need to be too subservient to the woman who allowed Perrin Threnhold to be poisoned in her custody. The Amell family has never been a friend of Orlais. The prince bows solemnly. “It is my greatest honor to meet the lady who has taught Hawke, who came to me in my hour of need. I promise you that will not be forgotten, when I am restored to my throne.” “Aren’t you charming,” Leandra says. Trumped by her own child: she always thought she was the most eccentric of the Amells, but Marrion has brought home a Lord of Fortune, a Dalish blood mage, an abomination, a deshyr of the Merchants’ Guild, an escaped Tevinter slave who glows in the dark, and now a lost prince. She does wonder what her parents would think of this, and then she stops herself, and smiles. Malcolm, at least, would be proud. “Marrion does make a lot of friends.” “Allies,” Marrion says. “Connections! Occasional enemies, true, but that’s just the Kirkwall spirit.” Leandra gives them a look and Marrion tosses their head, faux-bashly. They grin a tad viciously at Elthina. “And how are you, Grand Cleric? Did you get our letter?” “Pardon?” Elthina says. “Oh yes,” Hawke says. “I wrote you a petition. And Knight-Commander Meredith too, and Viscount Dumar.” Good old Marlowe, Leandra thinks sourly, always incapable of finding time, even for old friends--hadn’t Gamlen pushed him into a duck pond? “Sebastian, I thought you said you’d give it to her, ‘by your own hand’?” Hawke smiles dangerously. “You did say by your own hand.” The prince looks uncomfortable. Leandra taps Hawke’s hand with her fan discreetly, to tell them to knock it off. They are only recently returned to their name, after all, and one does not harass the Chantry lightly. Elthina looks beauteously concerned. “I do apologize, Messere Hawke. We get so many letters from the faithful, it is difficult to keep up. Dear Sebastian did give me your note, but then there was the services, the giving of alms--the days run on. But how charming you look! It’s good to see the Amell family restored.” After all you did to destroy it, Leandra does not say, taking my cousin’s children away from her, threatening to take my husband away. And my daughter. My little Bethany. She knows intellectually that the Grand Cleric has done little to her personally but follow the orders of the Divine--that the Chantry ordered Lord Threnhold’s blockade destroyed, and that is is Chantry law that mages be taken from their families. But she remembers that sister in Lothering, who sang the Chant of Shartan so prettily, and talked about the plight of the mages with Bethany. She makes herself meet Elthina’s placid blue eyes. “Yes,” Leandra murmurs. “My oldest’s debut.” She smiles mechanically, and thinks about that night she ran away from the party, upset at something someone said about poor Revka, and in the garden came upon a dashing young warden, sitting at the fountain and reading a book. She folds her arms and looks at her Hawke. “The belle of the ball.” Hawke flourishes again, mocking a curtsey at the Grand Cleric. “That’s me! Mother, do you hear the music? That’s the one song you taught me how to dance to! You know what that means?” “Oh Maker no,” Leandra says, but Marrion takes her by the hand and onto the dancefloor, and Leandra is amused and grateful and a bit tearful despite herself, because they are so clumsy, they are so egregious, they are such a Hawke, and as she tries to tame their flailing on the dancefloor, she has to laugh, because they’re funny, not taking this as seriously as an Amell should, but isn’t that the point? They’re not Amells anymore, and never were, and she is glad to laugh in the faces of the worst of the Kirkwall aristocracy, because she is proud of her choices and proud of her Hawke. “You’re trying to distract me,” Leandra says, taming them into a waltz. “Yeah,” Marrion says. “I know it’s hard for you, Mother, so isn’t it better to laugh?” They try to whirl Leandra around but step on her gown instead. “Marrion,” Leandra says, “you’re doing this on purpose. Making a fool of yourself.” “And you’re laughing,” Marrion returns. “Mother, you can’t take them seriously, can you? Like that woman’s so-called halla-hat. I know for a fact that Lady Elegant took those off a deer, not a hart, and painted them and sold them for thirty sovereigns. You have to laugh.” Leandra’s jaw drops. She grins incredulously. “Thirty sovereigns? Oh, I can’t want for the next DeLauncey salon.” Hawke grins. “Lirene’s the one who sold Elegant the deer. Have fun.”

#debutante #dragon age fanfic #fanfic #dragon age #da2 #leandra hawke #nonbinary hawke #marrion hawke #leandra & hawke #charlatron

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captainderyn · 6 years

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“ i really need you to hug me right now. ”

This has been sitting in my ideas folder for literal months at this point and I’ve only just got the energy and headspace to write it.

Warnings: Hardcore angst, character death, spoilers for All That Remains in DA2 (if y’all have played through that quest you know why)

Briar Hawke/Anders

(“You’re mother didn’t show up for her weekly visit.”

That alone hadn’t been enough to put a chill into Briar’s bones, none of the Hawke family had been particularly fond of Gamlen since their rise into Hightown and surely her mother had simply run into a delay in the marketplace instead of suffering their weekly meeting. Or perhaps, Bethany and Briar hadn’t been fond of Gamlen. For some reason Mother still tolerated him.

So, she had crossed her arms, cocked her hip and had a sharp retort ready on her lips when Bodahn wandered into their conversation and dried her retort right in her mouth. “Maybe she’s simply with her suitor.”

That couldn’t be right, Leandra had no suitors. She hadn’t looked at another man sideways since father had passed, not any that Briar knew of. It wasn’t as though her mother would have snuck around like some teenager either, she was a grown woman with two grown daughters, she didn’t need to. She echoed the sentiment out loud, mirrored by Gamlen’s own. At least on that, they could agree.

“Well, those lilies arrived for her this morning.” Idle flowers, resting on the corner table in a simple vase, crisp white petals only just starting to wilt and brown at the edges from the ongoing heat of the hearth. Briar hadn’t even taken note on them when she had walked in.

No. No. That wouldn’t…

“The killer…” Though Briar’s voice had hardly been above a croaking breath, both Bodahn and Gamlen’s eyes snapped to her, her uncle’s voice cutting into her shock like a knife when the thought struck her. .

“What?”

Briar was already shaking her head, a tremor starting deep in her gut and working into her voice. “There’s a killer, he always sends his victims white lilies, he’s killed several women already.”

That wasn’t what was happening. Mother was fine, she had simply taken a different route, or run into a bit of a crowd at the market.

“Leandra is fine, that can’t be right.” Gamlen’s own uncertain words echoed her own thoughts, perhaps the last time they’d see eye to eye on anything. “She must have just taken a different path. I should go wait for her, laugh about all this fuss.”

Then he was gone and Briar was tearing into her room, all shaking hands, and wide eyes as she tied her sword and scabbard around her waist, abandoning her armor when her fingers wouldn’t work the clasps. She just needed proof, she just needed to see that this was all some laughable overreaction.

“Mistress Hawke!” Bodahn called even as she shouldered past and into the streets of Kirkwall’s Hightown, scanning the crowds and hoping that she’d see the face of her mother, smiling at her and her silly notion that she had ever been in danger.

She found no one.)

Her heart stopped when she found the blood, slicking Darktown’s dirty streets and staining the wooden stairs deep, rusty brown. “It leads somewhere, the blood leads somewhere.” She babbled uselessly, reeling even as her feet carried her forward and her eyes carried her down, down the swirling pattern of that blood peppering the streets.

“They’re here somewhere, they have mother. Mother!” She had been raising her voice now every few strides, there was never a response. No face that turned towards her was Leandra’s, and no one stepped forward to calm the terrified young woman screaming for her mother like a lost child.

(She had run from Hightown to Darktown, near tumbling down the steps that led from Kirkwall’s best to Kirkwall’s worst, and slammed into the door of his clinic before her fumbling hands had the chance to attempt the latch.

“Anders!” If she screamed loud enough maybe she could drown out the fear pumping her heart faster than her breathing could keep up and maybe she could drown out the thoughts of those pearly white flowers, taunting her on the corner side table, and the thought of the killer’s hands on her mother.

Her hands beat on the wood palms down, forehead against the splintered wood grain as she all but collapsed against it. “Anders!”

The mage barely had time to open the splintered door, hands on her shoulders as she tumbled forward before she the words rushed from her, tripping and scattering in all directions. Her hands locked on his arms and when she brought her eyes up she saw the crisp eyes of a healer assessing her as if he thought her to be injured. No…no this was far worse than any injury. He shouldn’t be worried about her, he should be worried about--

“Anders, they’ve taken mother. They’ve taken her and I don’t know where she is and they’ve left lilies and I don’t know where she is and she’s somewhere, but where–”)

“Mother!” The cry that had been building for what felt like hours ripped painfully free of her chest, her vision tunneling to the prone figure across a wooden board set up like a cot, seeing only the shock of white hair, the similar cut of the dresses that were so in fashion to her mother and the older ladies of Kirkwall. “Moth–” When her hand on the shoulder met no resistance, the body of a woman resembling but not being Leandra flopping over onto her back, eyes boring sightless into Briar’s, she shrieked again--a terrified wail born of fear and disgust.

Then, scribbled notes scattered around, notes in a rushed hand on preservation, textures of skin, eye colors, all building into one sick and twisted image that Briar barreled past. This wasn’t happening, the answer lining in up in front of her wasn’t true.

“Briar!” Anders’ hand snatched at her as her sprint stumbled into a halt, dust pooling around her as she fell to her knees. While his hands steadied her on her shoulders–neither he nor Varric, nor even Isabela, had been able to do anything to stop her frantic run through the streets of Kirkwall and had finally decided just to sprint after her–she dug into the dust, her hands pulled from the dust a broken and trampled on locket.

“I know this locket.” Letting her head fall back she stared hard at the ceiling, everything starting to spin around her as her word narrowed another inch. “it belongs to mother. It’s mother’s, why is mother’s locket down here?”

Their eyes drifted up among the scattered papers and notes, tables and torn books, to fix on a painting fixed above a gruesome mantle and Briar’s horror condensed into one whimpering moan. “I need to find Mother, I need to find her now.”

“I was wondering when you’d arrive.” Briar only saw the man at the other end of the room, staring at her with unfocused and serene eyes, swaying on his feet when they charged into their only possible option, all other tunnel’s dead ending. “Leandra was so sure you’d come for her.”

She hated the tremble in her voice, putting her back to being a child, crying after a horrible nightmare into her parent’s arms. “Where is she?”

“You will never understand…chosen because she was special..part of something greater..”

The words floated by her ears like water in a river, a shaking hand jabbing a finger at the man as her voice rose. “Where is my mother?”

“I have done the impossible.” Only then did Briar see the oaken chair behind him, the sound of shifting silk. “I have touched the face of the Maker and lived.”

Already she was taking a step back, the rank smell curling her nose, and already her friends were at her back, reaching for her but froze halfway, all eyes fixed just as her’s were. “I pieced her together from memory. Her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers, I’ve found it all. And at last, I found her face, her beautiful face.”

The shifting silk stood, wavering on its feet like a doll on strings, toddling after the mage and facing them fully.

Only then, did Briar look into sightless blue eyes, pallored grey skin, and cry soundlessly, mouth gaping and lungs convulsing as they searched for air that she couldn’t remember how to get. Her heart worked into her throat, choking her, and her stomach plummeted into the ground at her feet, threatening to spill what little was left in her stomach.

She didn’t remember the mage falling, only turning and catching the staggering woman in her arms. “Mother!”. Without the man’s power, she sagged heavy, bringing Briar to her knees. The putrid scent of decay swirled around her, watering her eyes with far more than just revulsion and horror, even as she cradled her mother’s shoulders in her arms and laid her across her lap.

Just as Leandra had done with Carter, broken and laid across the stones by the Ogre. Just as Briar had done with Bethany, shuddering from the Taint as they waited for the Grey Wardens in the Deep Roads.

“That man’s magic was the only thing keeping her alive. Briar…I’m…” Anders’ voice faded into white noise as her mother lifted a trembling hand towards Briar’s cheek, only for it to fall limply back to her chest.

“I knew you would come.”

“Mother, don’t move.” Briar’s voice wavered, pleading and demanding all in the same breath. “I’m going to get you help, I’m going to…”

She fell silent at her mother’s hush, tears gathering on her lashes and falling in streams down her cheeks.

“Don’t fret darling, that man would have kept me trapped. Now I am free. I can see Carver, and you’re father again.” Each breath rattled and rasped in her throat, continuing on even as Briar shook her head on every syllable. No, she didn’t want to be alone. She couldn’t be alone. “But you’ll be here alone..”

“I failed you, mother. I came too late. I should’ve found you sooner, been stronger..I’m sorry.” Sobbing, Briar’s revulsion did not rear it’s head when Leandra’s cold, bloated hand found her arm.

“My little girl, you’ve done your best, you’ve been so strong and I love you. You’ve made me so proud.” With her last exhalation, as though exhausted by her words, Leandra went limp, clouded eyes finding the ceiling in an unseeing gaze.

As though all her strings were cut too, Briar bowed over her mother’s body, shaking until it became unbearable and an anguished scream ripped from her raw throat. A second and a third, more agonized wails delving into panicked cries for her mother; the scent of death surrounding and suffocating her until someone’s arms went around her, pulling her up and away. Twisting to the side, she retched, body spasming against the revulsion that built and built and built alongside the grief.

Someone’s hands on her shoulder, another brushing her hair back from her face until pulling her up to her feet. Unable to support herself, unable to find who, she just buried her head against their shoulders and shook.

Someone deposited her at their–her, now, she’s the sole member of her family with a claim to the walls and floors around her–estate, settling her in a chair with some mumbled promise that they’ll be back. She nodded lifelessly and stared into the flames, watching them dance back and forth.

“Did you find her?”

He didn’t even bother to knock, didn’t bother to announce himself. Instead, her uncle barged into the room, trampling down the stairs, with little regard to his sister’s daughter slowly crumbling to pieces on an old family chair.

Just as her look was vacant, Briar’s voice was hollow. “She’s gone. I’m sorry, Uncle.”

She braced herself for the vitriolic response, the shouting and maybe him stamping over to her so that she’ll look him in the eyes and repeat it. She doesn’t expect him to wither on the spot, shoulders slumping in her peripheral. “You were right then, about the flowers. I…she’s gone? Why her? Why Leandra?”

Hanging her head, pressing her palms against her forehead, Briar heaved a breath and whispered. “I was too late.”

That’s all the iron Gamlen needed pumped into his bones, enough to stiffen his spine and raise his voice until he was practically screaming acid at her. “So you’re to blame! If you had been stronger, quicker…you could’ve..she could be…”

“I know that!” Briar pushed herself from the chair, stumbling to face Gamlen and clinging white-knuckled to the cushioned back of the chair. Her voice cracked even as she shouted right back, though the acid in her own voice poured back onto her. “I know I should’ve been better, I had to be better and I failed her! It’s my fault and I don’t need you to tell me that!”

The tension went out of her shoulders and she slumped over the back of the chair, her wrists straining to support her crunched over position. Tears dripped down her nose again and Maker, she felt as though her head was going to burst with the pressure of it all. Voice broken, when Gamlen offered no opposition to her claiming the blame, she said softly; “The killer used Mother to magically recreate his dead wife…had I been earlier..”

“You’re brother, you’re sister, you’re mother…” Gamlen spat at her, disgust seeping from his every word, though he did not finish the thought. “I never should have asked, I wish you hadn’t told me what that twisted son of a bitch did to her.”

“If it’s any consolation, Gamlen, the killer is dead.” Lifting her eyes, twisted with pain even in the firelight, Briar fixed her uncle in a cold stare. “Now please, leave. I will handle writing to Bethany..she deserves to know.”

By the time Anders cautiously padded to the threshold of her quarters, pausing in the doorframe; she was sitting on the edge of her bed, the skin of her arms rubbed raw from her scrubbing with a cloth now homed in a pink-watered basin in the corner and in a new tunic. The one she had so foolishly run from the estate in only hours previous simmered and crackled in the heart, the flames eating at the blood-stained fabric scented with death slowly.

“I know nothing that I say will change it…” Anders started slowly, his voice–low and soothing to hear in the silence that had surrounded her since Gamlen’s whirlwind departure–catching her attention. Though she did not take her eyes from the low burning hearth her cheek turned slightly to him, hair cascading like a wall between her face and his. “But for what it’s worth, I’m so sorry.”

In her lack of response, Anders crossed the distance between them and perched on the bed beside her, not enough for them to touch, not without her say so, but close enough that she could feel his presence. It was…comforting. “You were lucky to have her as long as you did. When the pain fades that’s what will matter.”

“I failed her. I woulf still have her if I didn’t…if I had..” Briar shook her head, tucking her hair behind her ear and then letting her hand bridge across her eyes.

“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself, she didn’t blame you–” He began, before breaking it off with a weary sigh. “Though that does not make it easier. But, I’m here for you,” and he moved ever so slightly closer, just so that their shoulders touched. “whatever you need.”

Tired beyond measure, exhaustion clambering deep into her bones, Briar let her head list to rest on Anders’ shoulder. “I just..I just really need you to hug me.”

Then, Anders wrapped her in his arms, in his warmth, and Briar tucked herself next to him. Curling her knees up in the space between them and her head against his chest, she breathed out and tried to forget the empty estate around her.

#I answer things!#dragon age 2 #DA2 #femhawke #femhawke/anders #oc: Briar Hawke #otp: Until Dawn Comes #oh look I have time to write again and this is what I do with it #my HEART #my SOUL #all are DEAD from this shit that happens to my poor girl #rewatching this scene to write from was almost as horrifying as my first time playing through it #legit chills #I hate this quest #but I needed to write this #at least 5 months later and its written #..yay?

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carelessgraces · 4 years

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on astoria and control ( part one ) —

In both of Astoria’s main verses, her adolescence is marked by a series of pretty intense traumas following the same model: she is “educated” by previously unknown family members whom the rest of her family trusts. These family members — her godparents !! That’s a huge responsibility in a devout Catholic family like the Grimani family, and it brings with it a huge level of trust — violate that trust repeatedly: first, by manipulating Astoria’s mind and memory through magic; second, by physically and psychologically abusing her to force her into compliance, isolation, and fear; and third, by using her to harm other people, usually her own family, for their own purposes. It’s an intense thing to go through at any age, but at 14 – 15, Astoria is at a crucial moment in her development, and this fundamentally alters how she thinks, how she feels, how she reacts to things, how she develops and maintains relationships, going forward. Please proceed with caution: the following will discuss abuse, trauma, and recovery.

Astoria is only able to bring about an end to the abuse and manipulation when she starts manipulating her abusers back. The more that Amycus and Alecto mistreat her, the more she plays into what they want: she stops asking questions, she flinches at loud noises, she very much emphasizes her own fear and vulnerability. She recognizes the signs of her trauma starting to manifest and, rather than trying to hide them to keep herself from seeming vulnerable and like an easier target, she makes that front and center of her visible personality and reactions. More than that, she deliberately acts ashamed of this, so that Amycus and Alecto won’t suspect anything.

The psychological abuse is the major piece of this — while Amycus’ “discipline” is violent and leaves significant damage, it’s rare, and intended as a punishment for failure or disobedience. With Alecto, it’s constant gaslighting and manipulation, designed to make Astoria doubt her own perception of reality. Astoria learns the responses that Alecto wants and provides them, and the more that Alecto imagines that Astoria is easy to control. In both verses, Astoria is able to use this to lay a trap to stop them: first, she isolates them; then, she leaves a trail for anyone who’s looking to find; and third, she antagonizes them and goads them until they move to harm her, and in doing so, lead to their own deaths.

For the sake of ease, I’m going to talk about each verse individually, so apologies for length.

DRAGON AGE.

Astoria is able to leave Seleny, her grandfather, and her mother behind for a time, and she spends about six years in Orlais. The only family she maintains regular contact with on her mother’s side is her uncle — Giovanni hadn’t known, hadn’t even been present for most of it, and couldn’t have identified a blood mage’s thrall even if he was around. She slowly picks up communication with her mother and grandfather again after she settles into Orlais and begins studying at the University, but for the most part, the only people from home she cares to speak to are Giovanni and Lorenzo. She starts to develop a strong relationship with her father, visiting the Storm Coast whenever there’s a holiday, and she in turn becomes deeply connected to the bannorn itself. She works through the short-term trauma by becoming one of the many noble students at the University to take up bard training, and so her teenage angst is literally worked through by learning how to navigate the deadliest court in Thedas, and that includes violence and murder. ( As per Veronica Sawyer — “My teen angst has a body count.” )

If, as per her main DA timeline, she ends up caught in the Blight and traveling with the Hero of Ferelden, this is what brings about her healing. At first, I thought it was Alistair who did it, but it’s just the matter of traveling through this country that she has only recently started to call home and risking her life for it even when it’s not her responsibility, even when she ( arguably ) has a greater responsibility to do the opposite, and to get home to protect Seleny. It’s her first real act of selflessness, and it changes her: until this, she has always known in theory that she must be ready to sacrifice everything, her life included, for the people she ruled. Now, she knows that she can do just that, and more than that, she will.

And in so many ways, that’s what it comes down to: knowing that this is a choice she’ll make of her own volition, knowing that this is a sacrifice she’ll be willing to offer without anyone else’s influence. The Warden’s companions ( regardless of what the Wardens do ) will give her the chance to leave, over and over and over again, and every time she chooses to stay, it’s for her father, and her sister, and the bannorn, and everyone she meets. Astoria is selfish at her core, but she has the capacity for a really profound selflessness when it comes to the people for whom she is responsible; that’s what makes her a good leader, and it prepares her to become Inquisitor. It helps her get past her anger, it helps her understand that some failures can’t be fixed but they can be handled, and it gives her the space she needs to heal in an honest way. When she comes home to Seleny in 9:34, it’s with a sense of peace.

If, instead, she stays in the bannorn during the Blight, she goes to Kirkwall next, and Kirkwall is not the sort of place that really encourages one’s better angels. She can do just about anything, and really, who’s going to prevent her? So her anger comes out in different ways: she doesn’t feel like she has a home in Antiva or in Ferelden, and so she treats Kirkwall as temporary. She lashes out in battle, she’s vicious, she’s calculating to an extreme, and depending on Hawke’s influence, she is utterly lawless. This time, it’s Fenris who evens her out: she sees someone with similar fears of magic, but with more focus, more drive. The more she knows Fenris, the more she begins to realize that the biggest difference between them is that she’s in a position where she can make the changes she wants, that she can do something about all of this.

Astoria isn’t fit to be anybody’s princess until the end of Act II — again, after she’s risked her life when she really doesn’t have to, and after she’s been made to take a stand in favor of people who can do absolutely nothing for her in terms of social and political mobility. When the Arishok describes what happened to the elves who converted, and why they converted, Astoria is moved to defend Kirkwall not because she thinks that the Guard should have access to those elves to punish them, but because she realizes that the elves and the mages really can’t go anywhere else, and really, what the hell kind of princess is she if she’s not willing to do something about that? Astoria fights, Astoria bleeds, and at the end of it, Astoria returns to Seleny not because of her grandfather’s health, but because she knows she has to. She’s a little clumsier around the one act of selflessness — she’s had less time to make sense of it — but by Inquisition she’s the same person: she’s a fine princess for Seleny, and while she knows that her own life has a great deal of value if only for its symbolic value ( if she lives, Seleny remains stable, the changes she makes can be made permanent, she can protect the people and the economy, etc etc ) she knows, too, that there’s a lot to be gained by bleeding in place of, or alongside, her people. It’s what sends her to the Conclave, and if she’s not Inquisitor, it’s what keeps her with the Inquisition.

And it all comes down to control and anger. Astoria’s greatest fear is losing control of herself, and she spends all of her youth pushing back against even a perceived threat to her self control. She imagines that control of the self will lead to control of the world around her, and it’s the process of understanding that this isn’t always the case that helps her to grow.

ON WRATH.

While Astoria’s susceptible to any and all of the ~deadly sins,~ and commits most of them frequently and with great enjoyment, the one that’s the most detrimental to her is wrath. She recognizes the power of anger: it mobilizes, it kickstarts healing, it has a lot of value and it can be a really important part of just existing in a hostile world. For Astoria, though, her anger takes on a life of its own: she’s been wounded in profoundly personal and brutal ways, told time and time again that she brought those wounds on herself or that the wounds simply do not exist, and that she’s only hurting herself.

It feeds off of her fear of a lack of control — if she can’t trust her perception of reality, then what can she trust? How can she keep control of anything? She has an instinct to punish, rather than towards true justice: her wrath tells her that the only way to guarantee that she is never made a victim again is to destroy anyone who tries to victimize her. Her wrath tells her that her safety may need to be bought through someone else’s blood, and that she has to be ready to pay that price. It’s not entirely wrong: Trevisan assassins have been coming after her with some regularity since she was fourteen, and she’s been placed under the thrall of someone she should have been able to trust. In all of these cases, it’s kill or be killed. ( As per Katherine Pierce — “Better you die than I.” )

Part of gaining a greater control of herself is in gaining control of that wrath and learning to overcome it. ( Kirkwall’s terrible for her in that regard — wrath runs pretty rampant in Kirkwall, and there’s no shortage of people willing to pick a fight. ) It proves difficult, in part because there are a lot of people who Astoria thinks deserves to die, and these are the people she’s fighting: slavers, and Loghain’s forces ( and Loghain himself ), and Uldred and his blood mages, and the werewolves. In Kirkwall, there are slavers around every corner, and the Templars abuse their power in ways that sicken her. In Inquisition, she genuinely cannot go more than a few days without killing someone, because she’s constantly fighting some battle or another.

And after a while, she becomes desensitized, because it’s part of her new normal. Astoria is not a good person, and I’ve said this a thousand times by now: the blood on her hands cannot and should not be ignored. Frankly, nobody in a Dragon Age setting is a good person. I think that’s something that needs to be grappled with, but that’s for another day. When her wrath becomes normalized, that’s when it’s at its most dangerous, and she struggles with that constantly, because wrath is another thing that takes control away from her.

Nowhere is this better illustrated than in a Dragon Age universe, because it leaves her vulnerable to literal demons of wrath. ( And I have been itching for a verse where Astoria is left in the Fade and comes out possessed by a demon of wrath, js. )

To follow: modern verses, and how this impacts Astoria in shipping.

#i. she had a marvelous time ruining everything. ( about )#tw: abuse #tw: death #tw: violence #tw: murder #i. you never hear of anyone storming a castle on a wednesday. ( character development )

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moczothe1st · 7 years

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Days of Our Dragon Age: Episode 39: A Love as Deep as a Deep Road

[SCENE: CAMP, at HIGH NOON. It is NIGHT.]

BLAKE: [SADLY] Okay, everyone. We have recruited, to face the infinite hordes of the Darkspawn, a total of ten mages and fifty elves. How many Darkspawn do we have to kill, again?

STEN: You just called them an infinite horde.

BLAKE: I was hoping that I was wrong, dammit.

ALISTAIR: I don’t think you could ever be wrong, my sweet.

LELIANA: Want to get married?

BLAKE: I… wait, Alistair I expected, but Leliana, I thought we broke up, or…

LELIANA: I really liked something you said in the temple, and you gave me a piece of cake. It made us a couple again.

BLAKE: … … … Sure. Anyway, I’m going to come right out and say that maybe we need to improve the size of our forces. We are going to need to bolster our ‘army’ with an actual army. Now, where do you think we should go to seek this? I’m taking votes.

ALISTAIR: Arl Eam-

BLAKE: The Deep Roads it is! Let’s go find some dwarves.

ALISTAIR: [POUTING] You said we were voting.

BLAKE: We did. I just forgot to mention that I’m the only one who gets a vote, because I’m the leader. That’s what we call ‘democracy.’

MORRIGAN: I wish you were a man.

[The GROUP leaves camp, beginning the LONG HIKE to the entrance of ORZAMMAR, legendary city of the DWARVES. They make it THIRTY SECONDS.]

DARKSPAWN EMISSARY: RANDOM ENCOUNTER, BITCHES!

ALISTAIR: Wow, the emissaries really are smarter than normal darksp-

EMISSARY: EMISSARY, ROCKIN’ OUT THE FIREBALLS, YO! I AM THE FIRE OF PERDITION COME TO DEVOUR YOU! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAH!

[The EMISSARY, being MORE CLEVER than a normal DARKSPAWN, is able to launch a MAGICAL FIREBALL at the group while SIMULTANEOUSLY shredding out a ROCKING GUITAR SOLO. They really ARE quite INTELLIGENT.]

EVERYONE: [IS ON FIRE]

WYNNE: [BEGINS TO GLOW] I was secretly being kept alive by a magical spirit the whole time!

[SPIRIT POWERS, on. ACTIVATE INTERLOCK, dynotherms CONNECTED, Infracells UP, Mega-thrusters are GO.]

BLAKE: … So your dark secret was spirit powers that can enhance you for combat? That was your dark secret?

WYNNE: Alas, for I am an abomination, animated only by a spirit who has chosen to grant me a tenuous grasp on-

BLAKE: Awesome. You’re in the party forever.

WYNNE: You don’t seem to be having the experience of deep religious terror I was expecting from this revelation. I’m dead, you realize.

BLAKE: No, those guys are dead. The creepy veiny faced ones, vaguely spawnlike? On the dark side? You have superpowers. You’re Spirit Woman. I would marry you if you weren’t, you know...

MORRIGAN: Old? Decrepit? Wrinkled like a prune?

BLAKE: … I was going to say ‘grandmotherly,’ I swear. MORRIGAN: Hideous?

BLAKE: Stop helping, please.

MORRIGAN: Ancient and corroded? Willfully ignorant of the world around her in favor of propagating a broken system?

WYNNE: I can’t use my spirit powers very often. You can tell because Morrigan still has a face.

MORRIGAN: Smelling vaguely of mold?

BLAKE: She’s gonna keep doing this for awhile. Let’s just finish walking to Orzammar before we get another random encounter.

MORRIGAN: Oddly dry, as if made of sandpaper?

[SCENE: The FROSTBACK MOUNTAINS, on the trail to ORZAMMAR, realm of the DWARVES. Yes, the REALM OF THE DWARVES is ONE CITY, and it honestly isn’t even a GREAT ONE. There is a lot of MAGMA and the DARKSPAWN are their next-door NEIGHBOR, but the DWARVES remain there because they believe LIVING ABOVE GROUND is INHERENTLY EVIL. Oh, there is TECHNICALLY another CITY but you’ll never GO THERE and it’s PROBABLY WORSE, for all we KNOW.]

THIS is what is known as EXPOSITION intended to make sure that any READERS don’t go into the coming segment with HIGH EXPECTATIONS.]

BLAKE: Okay, so does anyone know where the door is? It seems like they should put up signs.

ALISTAIR: Oh, there’s a sign. Next to those fine gentleman guarding the path.

[There are FIVE INDIVIDUALS on the path. Not ALL of them are GENTLEMEN, and none of them look particularly FINE. Some do NOT HAVE TEETH, and all are carrying some manner of SHARP IMPLEMENT. There are some BLOODSTAINS on the clothing, but that will probably not be IMPORTANT.]

BOUNTY HUNTER: Hey. You Grey Wardens?

BLAKE: … No.

ALISTAIR: Hey, look. That sign says we’re near Orzammar. That’s important for Grey Wardens to visit! Like us!

BOUNTY HUNTER: *smile*

[The group CONTINUES THEIR TREK after wiping all of the BLOOD off of THEMSELVES. It is nearly HALF from other PEOPLE. Thankfully, WYNNE is here and she can RE-ATTACH LELIANA’S LIMBS. It’s not HER FAULT that ARCHERY won’t be good until the DLC.]

BLAKE: So I think we need to make some new rules about Alistair and when he can talk. I nominate ‘never.’

ALISTAIR: You have beautiful eyes.

LELIANA: I’ve always thought so!

ZEVRAN: Mrrrrrrrrrrow.

BLAKE: You know, I hear there’s people out there who really like this much attention. Would it be possible for some of you to go out and latch on to them? I hear that Hawke could really use a friend or two. You guys need more friends, don’t you?

[This is TRUE, but if HAWKE had FRIENDS then they would PROBABLY JUST DIE. Be super blunt with me here, did you really enjoy playing as HAWKE? Did you have a lot of FUN sorting out the MAGE-TEMPLAR CONFLICT? Of course you DIDN’T. Playing as HAWKE was an endless slog of PAIN AND DESPAIR as everything about their life SPIRALLED out of control and they slowly but surely LOST EVERYTHING and UTTERLY FAILED to prevent a WORLD WAR, then the THIRD GAME has some new guy SOLVE THE PROBLEM in like, an HOUR. Then HAWKE makes a CAMEO and has a 50% chance of DYING.]

[Sorry, HAWKE. It’s not your FAULT.]

MORRIGAN: I don’t have friends, myself.

[That pretty much IS her fault, though.]

BLAKE: I believe that is literally true.

[IT IS.]

[SCENE: ORZAMMAR. There is LAVA everywhere, but it is VIDEO GAME LAVA so it only hurts you if you TOUCH IT. The DWARVES are currently having a POLITICAL DEBATE.]

DWARF A: I think Harrowmont sucks and Prince Bhelen should be king!

DWARF B: Well, I think Bhelen sucks and Lord Harrowmont should be king!

DWARF A: *MURDERS DWARF B IN THE STREETS*

BLAKE: Holy crap!

MORRIGAN: Finally, someone with a firm grasp of governance.

[We may need to consider the possibility that MORRIGAN is just an ODDLY TALL DWARF]

DWARF GUARD: Hail, Warden. I understand you’ve come to us seeking our mighty dwarf army to help you face off against the terror of the Darkspawn Blight.

BLAKE: I… yes. Are you going to clean up the corpse, or…

DWARF GUARD: Alas, we cannot command our forces to march without the guidance of our king, and we have none.

BLAKE: There was a murder just now, so…

DWARF GUARD: If you seek the power of the dwarven army, you shall need to chose one of the leading candidates, Prince Bhelen, the sole surviving member of the royal family and you probably just shouldn’t question why that is, or the old king’s friend Lord Harrowmont who seems like a great choice. Yes, he really seems that way. He certainly does seem to be the right choice. Seeeeeeeeeeeems. [WINKS a few times while DISCRETELY POINTING at GAMEFAQS.]

BLAKE: This isn’t going to be any fun, is it?

DWARF GUARD: That’s basically our town motto.

LELIANA: I question if ze dwarf army is even worz it, everyone. Perhaps we should just go focus on ze Arl Eamon and let zem sort zis all out for zemselves.

ALISTAIR: Yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…

STEN: I feel they could not possibly be worse than the elf army, if this helps in making our choice.

MORRIGAN: I want to do whatever Alistair doesn’t want to do.

WYNNE: Now, now, children. We need as many soldiers as we can get to face the Blight. We’ll just have to pick one of the candidates and support his claim to the throne. I’m sure we can use our finely tuned moral compasses to determine which is the correct option. We are, after all, purely noble heroes without any factors that might render our judgments suspect.

MORRIGAN: Aren’t you possessed by an extradimensional entity that could be altering your thoughts in any number of ways, potentially without you even knowing?

WYNNE: Aren’t you overdue to shut up?

[With their COURSE DECIDED, the group decides to interview both CANDIDATES to determine which is the CORRECT MORAL OPTION.]

[SCENE: PRINCE BHELEN’s home, the PALACE.]

BHELEN: Greetings. Welcome to my home, Grey Warden. I am a sleazy amoral murderer that is directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of my entire family, and I’m going to be asking you to break pretty much every one of the like, six laws that we dwarves even have. Want to be friends?

WYNNE: … … … … … ... …

BLAKE: Whoa. Um. We’ll, uh… we’ll consider it. [WHISPERED] Let’s get the Hell out of here.

[SCENE: LORD HARROWMONT’S estate.]

LORD HARROWMONT: *Pets a puppy* Greetings, my new Warden friends. I am kindly old uncle Harrowmont. Would you like a Werther’s candy?

BLAKE: You seem much nicer than your opposition.

ALISTAIR: *Eats a Werther’s candy*

LELIANA: I feel safe and warm.

HARROWMONT: Why, thank you, children. Yes, I am much nicer than Prince Bhelen. He is cold and cruel, while I am kind and respectful to all those who help me. I certainly SEEM like the correct choice. [PAUSES, and gestures at the player’s INTERNET BROWSER while COUGHING.] That is most definitely how I SEEM. You would definitely THINK that I am the morally obvious correct choice. I SEEM THAT WAY. SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM.

BLAKE: Okay, everyone. We have a choice, here. Who do we want to pick?

BHELEN: *Eats a baby.*

HARROWMONT: *Rocks in his ol’ rocking chair on the front porch, pouring lemonade for all the local kids.*

BLAKE: I think the choice is obvious. So. Bhelen it is, then!

MORRIGAN: You looked that up on the internet.

BLAKE: … … Verily, I knowest not of what thou speakest, fair Morrigan. Internet? Be this some magely conjuring of thine…

MORRIGAN: You did. Don’t even bother pretending we have a fourth wall anymore. You looked up the ending on the internet.

BLAKE: Okay, fine. Look, it’s not my fault. You try avoiding spoilers for an eight year old game, see how well you do.

MORRIGAN: You know, if you already know everything that’s going to happen, I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to keep my dark secret.

[DRAMATIC ORGAN PLAYS]

BLAKE: You know, I legit thought we were done with that gag.

MORRIGAN: Do not change the subject! I’m a major plot character and my arc is crucial to the central twists of the endgame, and you’re just spitting all over that. I thought we had a connection, you know? I thought ‘here is someone as generally unpleasant as me, who hates Alistair, and enjoys power and murder.’ I thought we could be friends, you know? But now I find out you’ve not even the slightest concern for maintaining secrecy regarding story structure, and-

STEN: [Hits MORRIGAN in the back of the head with a ROCK.]

BLAKE: Thanks, man, that was seriously getting awkward. Chicks, am I right?

LELIANA: Is that remark sexist if you are a woman?

BLAKE: I’m choosing to say ‘no.’

SCENE: PRINCE BHELEN’S PALACE OF DESPAIR, int.

BHELEN: Fantastic, I knew you would see reason and choose the obviously correct choice for Orzammar which is foreshadowed believably.

MORRIGAN: I have such a headache. And I have no memory of the last six hours. Why is everyone here so short? It sickens me.

BLAKE: Just ignore her, prince sir. She’s silly.

MORRIGAN: This one sickens me most of all. The eyes of a rat, he has.

BHELEN: I would normally object to that, but I’m going to be sending you to kill the dwarf mafia now, so honestly that’s punishment enough.

BLAKE: … When you say ‘kill the mafia’…

BHELEN: Yes, the whole thing.

DOG: Bark, bark!

BLAKE: I’m not going to translate that because it isn’t fit for polite company, but Dog doesn’t like you any more than Morrigan does.

MORRIGAN: I hate all short people. And farmers. And anyone named ‘Casper.’

BLAKE: Also, Wynne, I think she has a concussion, could you fix that?

WYNNE: Eh.

[SCENE: The hideout of the DWARF MAFIA, int. int. It is a CAVE inside a CITY inside a CAVE, so I think it deserves two ‘int.’]

JARVIA: Hello there, Warden. I am Jarvia, head of the Dwarf Mafia, which someone really should have called by its proper name by now, but we won’t. If you know what it is off the top of your head, good job on paying attention. I mean, there won’t be a quiz or anything, but still, good work.

BLAKE: Nothing personal, but I have to stab you a few times because I need an army. And since we’re the heroes and you’re a glorified sneak thief, that’s gonna be fun for everyone.

[BLAKE takes ONE STEP forward.]

SIX THOUSAND TRAPS: [ALL GO OFF AT ONCE]

[SCENE: BHELEN’S PALACE OF ETERNAL DESPAIR, int.]

BHELEN: So how was Jarvia?

BLAKE: [STILL ON FIRE] Fuck you.

BHELEN: Awesome. Now, as it turns out, that was actually a waste of time. We really just need a Paragon to approve me.

ALISTAIR: What’s that?

BHELEN: When a dwarf does something which gives great aid to their people, that they will be remembered by our people forever, they are labeled as a Paragon; a living ancestor… nay, a living god. The word of a Paragon could make a king, for a Paragon is beyond a king. They are beyond us all. The living expression of Dwarfkind’s greatest qualities. And we have discovered one… may still live among us. Paragon Branka, the greatest living dwarf of our time!

ALISTAIR: Ooooooh. What did she do?

BHELEN: She… invented a kind of clean-burning coal.

LELIANA: Zat… is it?

BHELEN: Yup. Canon.

BLAKE: And you made her a god for that?

WYNNE: I try not to judge foreign religions, but my word that seems a bit extreme.

STEN: My religion lobotomizes non-believers who refuse to conform.

WYNNE: … Okay. Well, it’s not as extreme as that.

BHELEN: I said it gave great aid to the dwarf people, not interesting aid. Now go out into the Deep Roads and find Branka. She wandered off a few years ago and it’s a maze of death that spans the entire country, but I’m sure you’ll find her in a few hours.

ALISTAIR: If I could be a paragon, I’d like it to be for inventing a new kind of cheese.

BHELEN: Starting to question my choices in hiring you people, not gonna lie.

[SCENE: The DEEP ROADS. Pretty much all of the DEEP ROADS look the same, so it really could be ANYWHERE IN THEM.]

BLAKE: I feel like we’re missing something…

MORRIGAN: A map?

STEN: A guide?

ALISTAIR: You look great in that outfit.

LELIANA: Oui, mon cherie.

BLAKE: … … … … Okay, this isn’t the time and you creep me out a little, but it’s so hot when you speak Orlesian to me, baby.

ALISTAIR: Thank you! I don’t even realize when I’m doing it, apparently.

BLAKE: [SOBS for a bit.]

THE SMELL OF WHISKEY GIVEN FORM: Heya. You guys all ran out inta the Deep Roads and forgot to talk to me.

BLAKE: Oh, who the Hell are you now? And you had better not be a party member because I have quite enough of those.

A BEARD ATTACHED TO A KEG: Oh, I’m a party member. I’m the best party member. I’m here to get drunk, sexually harass everyone, and smell weird. I’m so goddamn manly you could use my blood ta give women sex changes.

ALISTAIR: Sexually harass everyone? I thought that was Zevran’s job.

ZEVRAN: It isn’t sexual harassment if they love it, baby.

LIKE A DWARF, ONLY MORE ALCOHOLIC: And they never love it with me. I confuse and terrify people. I. Am. OGHREN.

[THE LIGHT OF HEAVEN shines down, illuminating OGHREN, the party member you will LAUGH AT THE MOST. MAYBE. If you like DRUNK DWARVES.]

BLAKE: So… um… nice to meet you?

OGHREN: Nice tits, babe.

BLAKE: … I’mma kill him.

OGHREN: Wasn’t talking to you. I meant the one with no shirt.

MORRIGAN: … I’mma kill him.

OGHREN: The Ogh-man’s still got it.

ALISTAIR: By ‘it’, do you mean, ‘the ability to make women furious?’

OGHREN: Why do you think Branka ran out into the middle of the monster-infested death caverns with her entire family? She was married to me.

WYNNE: Ah. Ah. Okay, I would have left society forever if you were my husband, I have to admit.

LELIANA: I would have left society twice. Once for ze personality, and once for ze smell.

BLAKE: And her ex-girlfriend is a sociopathic murderer, so if even she finds you repulsive, you know you’re repulsive.

LELIANA: How long are you going to ‘ang zat over my ‘ead? Honestly, you date one sociopazic murderer, an’ everyone judges vous forever.

OGHREN: I think I’m gonna like hanging out with you people. You’re the same kind of chaotic mess I am, only sober.

BLAKE: I never said you could join us.

[OGHREN has joined the PARTY.]

BLAKE: Oh, right, I forgot. I have no control over my own life.

ALISTAIR: I think that’s your best quality.

LELIANA: After your wonderful hair.

MORRIGAN: I don’t know if I’d call it a quality, but it certainly makes my job a lot easier. [PAUSES] Not that I have a specific goal in the group or anything.

OGHREN: Does anyone have some beer?

[SCENE: The DEEP ROADS. Only EVEN DEEPER.]

OGHREN: Now, Branka took our entire clan and left me, and only me, behind, so I’ve been working on a way to find her so we can be a couple again.

LELIANA: You didn’t take zis abandonment as a hint regarding her feelings for you? You must learn to recognize your love’s moods, you know.

BLAKE: That’s rich, coming from you.

ALISTAIR: Yeah, Leliana! You really need to learn to take a hint when Blake just isn’t interested.

BLAKE: [QUIET SOBS]

ALISTAIR: Now look, you made her cry.

OGHREN: Whoa. I knocked back a literal gallon of vodka before I found you guys, and somehow I’m not the dumbest one in the party. Anyone think that’s a little weird?

STEN: If you remain in the group for long enough, you learn to not notice it. It is like a poison which causes numbness before it inevitably kills us.

OGHREN: Neat, that’s what I drink on Thursdays, ta get me ready for the hard stuff on Friday night. Anyhoo, I know that Branka started off by going to the legendary Ortan Thaig, which is dwarven for ‘hideous poison spider ghost hellhole.’

WYNNE: Such a beautiful language.

BLAKE: Okay, that doesn’t sound particularly nice, but if a whole army of dwarves already marched through it, I suspect we’ll be fine. I mean, they had to have already killed most of the monsters and-

[A SPIDER the size of a MINIVAN falls from the ceiling and tackles BLAKE to the ground, savaging her face with its POISON FANGS.]

CORRUPTED SPIDER QUEEN: Hssssssssssss!*

[*TRANSLATED FROM SPIDERESE: My favorite food, people who wander too close to annoying boss fights!]

BLAKE: KILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLITKILLIT-

WYNNE: [Releases the long-suffering SIGH of one who is never going to have an HOUR OF FREE TIME for the rest of her LIFE.]

[SCENE: The DEEP ROADS. STILL.]

BLAKE: *Twitches*

ALISTAIR: Erm… honey? Are you-

BLAKE: THERE WAS A SPIDER ON MY FACE. IT WAS LARGER THAN AVERAGE.

ALISTAIR: I’ll, erm, give you some time alone.

BLAKE: I CUT OFF ITS HEAD. I SHALL WEAR IT AS A HAT NOW, TO OVERCOME PERSONAL TRAUMA AND BE A BETTER PERSON.

LELIANA: *whispered* B-but she doesn’t have the….

WYNNE: I don’t think you should mention that to her. This is my professional opinion as a psychiatrist.

ZEVRAN: Are you a psychiatrist?

WYNNE: I don’t really need to be to analyze this one.

ZEVRAN: Fair.

OGHREN: Look on the bright side! I think we’re pretty much past the worst part of the Deep Roads. Smooth sailin’ from here, until we find Branka and everything’s great.

[The group turns a CORNER, to find the corridors are suddenly lined with a layer of DISGUSTING FLESH that PULSATES WITH INNER CORRUPTION. It smells of ROTTING MEAT and drips VILE OOZE that steams in the DIM LIGHT of torches that use the FAT of SENTIENT BEINGS as their UNHOLY FUEL. In a ravine below, a HORDE OF DARKSPAWN march toward the SURFACE, bringing with them DISEASE, WAR, AND DEATH. The ARCHDEMON, a dragon of unstoppable power warped by BLIGHT into a TWISTED WINGED NIGHTMARE flies overhead, BLACK FLAME flickering around its RAZOR-EDGED MAW.]

[SCENE: The Dead Trenches.]

OGHREN: See? It must be a nice place. All those guys like it, an’ they can’t all be wrong.

EVERYONE ELSE: [SILENCE]

OGHREN: *belches*

BLAKE: All right, I’m feeling better about spiders, because I have this deep-seated fear popping up that something way worse is about to happen. Anyone else getting the feeling something way worse is about to happen?

ZEVRAN: I genuinely wonder if it could get worse than what we have already seen.

[HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, wow. Oh, wow, it CAN. Like, holy crap. I can’t even.]

OGHREN: Does anyone have a sandwich? I’ve been hammering down vodka for like six hours. I could use a snack.

ZEVRAN: You genuinely worry me.

[SCENE: DEEPER in the DEAD TRENCHES which are DEEP in the DEEP ROADS, DEEP. DEEP.]

BLAKE: All right, I think at this point our best option is to not do anything, ever, for any reason. Any door we open will have something awful behind it, so we just won’t open any doors.

ZEVRAN: What if need to open a door to keep going?

BLAKE: Then we stand next to it until we die of old age. Because we can never, ever, open it. Because what’s behind it will be terrible. Look at this place. Everything about it is terrible. Everything we find will be terrible. Everything. Is. Terrible.

ALISTAIR: Honey, you’ve had a bad day, and you have some spider venom in your brain. You’re not thinking clearly. Surely not every path can lead to something awful!

[ALISTAIR opens the first DOOR he finds. Behind is an ANCIENT DARKSPAWN FORGE, surrounded by a small ARMY of the BLOODTHIRSTY BEASTS, at the head a HIDEOUSLY WIZENED and yet TERRIFYINGLY MUSCLED ancient beast, a LEGENDARY BLADE snapped off in its hide from one of many HEROES who have FALLEN BEFORE IT.]

[ALISTAIR closes the DOOR.]

ALISTAIR: Admittedly a bad example.

ZEVRAN: So cute, yet so dumb.

ALISTAIR: What?

ZEVRAN: What?

LELIANA: Let us try zis door!

[LELIANA opens another door. Behind is it is an ANCIENT CRYPT, carved from OBSIDIAN and swirling with the SOULS OF THE DAMNED. The GHOSTS of FALLEN DWARVES, their DARK AURA repelling even the DARKSPAWN, patrol their crypt, ready to SLAUGHTER ANY LIVING THING.]

[LELIANA closes the DOOR.]

BLAKE: ‘Cute but dumb’ is a recurring theme around here, eh?

LELIANA: You realize zat I know you are insulting me?

BLAKE: It’s okay, you’ll forgive me when I give you a present and say you have nice hair.

LELIANA: I cannot argue with zis.

MORRIGAN: This is amusing. Can I open a door next?

BLAKE: No!

[MORRIGAN does not LISTEN. Behind the door is a DWARVEN WOMAN; her eyes are coated in CATARACTS and EMPTY of all HOPE, her clothes torn, her skin COATED in FILTH and hideous BLACK LESIONS, as if she was ROTTING FROM WITHIN. Under her breath, she repeats a terrifying rhyme about the HORRIBLE DEATHS of all her friends and loved ones.]

MORRIGAN: Ooooh, this is the most fascinating door yet.

BLAKE: … … … What is wrong with you.

HORRIFYING DWARF WOMAN: [I… will refrain from repeating the POEM here because if you ever played the GAME, you have heard it for years in your NIGHTMARES. Suffice to say: NEVER EVER BE CAUGHT BY DARKSPAWN.]

OGHREN: Hespith? Damn, you’ve… looked better.

HESPITH: I have been systematically tortured and fed the bloody flesh of my kinsmen for days on end.

OGHREN: Maybe need a bath or somethin’.

HESPITH: Life is over. There is no hope. I seek only oblivion now.

OGHREN: I… shit, does anyone have a beer or somethin’ for her? I drank all mine on the way here to prep me for drinking when we get home to celebrate saving Branka and the clan.

HESPITH: She betrayed us, feeding her entire clan to the Darkspawn. The men are dead. The women are worst. I am the only survivor… … … no. No, I did not survive. My heart still beats, but I am dead. Branka is dead, for there is nothing inside her now but madness and obsession. House Branka is dead.

OGHREN: Erm… I’m still okay?

HESPITH: [SQUINTS] … Oh sweet ancestors, it’s Oghren. I thought I was hallucinating, but the smell of it is worse even than this pit of horrors. Like rotting cheese and a skunk had a baby.

OGHREN: Nice to see you too. How ya doin’?

HESPITH: I thought I was in Hell before, but fate cannot help but drag me that tiny bit lower.

OGHREN: Yeah, running out of beer will do that. So, uh, how is Branka doing? I mean, other than… leaving you to die.

HESPITH: You are familiar with the Anvil of the Void? The legendary tool that allows dwarves to create golems?

OGHREN: I am, and not just because you summarized it right there.

BLAKE: Thanks for doing that, by the way.

HESPITH: You’re welcome. Well, in any case, Branka quite wants it. And she decided everyone else in the world was holding her back.

OGHREN: Even me?

HESPITH: Especially you. Also, I’ve been sleeping with her. For years. Before, during, and after your marriage. You are a cuckold.

OGHREN: … … ... Why would you mention that?

HESPITH: It is literally the only small joy I have left in my existence.

BLAKE: I wish I had met you earlier. I think you and I would have gotten along before you were like… mentally and physically destroyed.

ALISTAIR: She’s right, you know. Oghren does smell like skunk cheese.

LELIANA: I vould have zaid ‘badger garbage,’ but I accept many viewpoints.

MORRIGAN: Truly, dwarfland is a wonderful place. I may retire here one day, when my plans have come to fruition. [PAUSE] Not that I have any plans.

[NOT seeing any real evidence against that ‘TALL DWARF’ theory. If she starts MINING we can pretty much CONFIRM it.]

HESPITH: Well. You people certainly are… special. Let me tell you a fun secret. The way out of the Dead Trenches to where Branka has gone is through the door down this hallway. Have fun.

BLAKE: Is the secret really fun?

HESPITH: [RESUMES saying her CREEPY RHYME.]

BLAKE: Okay, I’m choosing to stay optimistic about the secret. We don’t know for sure it won’t be fun.

[SCENE: Through the DOOR, in a room that looks like the WOMB in which is gestating the baby of SATAN and HITLER.]

BROODMOTHER, HIDEOUSLY BLOATED, PALLID, DEFORMED TENTACLE BEAST FROM THE PITS OF HELL: Hrrrrrrrsssssssss!

BLAKE: WHY DOES IT HAVE BOOBS?!

ALISTAIR: I’M NOT HAVING FUN!

LELIANA: OH GOD THE SMELL IS SO AWFUL I CAN FEEL IT IN MY MOUTH!

ZEVRAN: THE VERY CONCEPT OF SEX HAS BECOME DISGUSTING TO ME!

MORRIGAN: Ooooh, fascinating.

STEN: If you ever wondered why I don’t talk much? This would be why. Moments like this.

DOG: Bark, bark!

STEN: You’re the only one of these people I can respect.

BROODMOTHER, THE NIGHTMARE OF SIGMUND FREUD AFTER A WEEK-LONG TRIP THROUGH THE PORN DISTRICTS OF JAPAN: [GIVES birth to a THOUSAND ANGRY YOUNG, who charge at the party, screaming and coated in VILE BLACK OOZE.]

BLAKE: [Throws up.]

OGHREN: Either I’m drunk, or that lady just spat a buncha darkspawn out of her-

BLAKE: YOU’RE DRUNK AND THAT HAPPENED.

OHGREN: Damn. That’s like, 50% bad.

WYNNE: [Just SIGHS and starts casting the HEALING SPELLS. ALISTAIR is already being CHEWED ON.]

[SCENE: Still in the DEEP ROADS, and interlocking WEB of tunnels that nonetheless still only have ONE ROUTE to FOLLOW.]

BLAKE: [CLEANING something off her FACE that one probably shouldn’t THINK ABOUT too hard.] All right. All right. All right. We are sure the thing is dead, yes? We are sure? Because we’ll have to come back this way and I wanna know. I never, ever want to see another of those again. Ever.

[Hahaha… yeah, ABOUT THAT.]

BLAKE: You stay out of this. Sten, did you perform the operation?

STEN: [Holds up BROODMOTHER’S disgusting head.] I’m not sure why I’m the one who has to carry this.

BLAKE: Because you’re the biggest. You have the most meat to get through if it comes alive and starts trying to eat people.

STEN: I have grown to hate you.

BLAKE: Don’t be uncool about this, Sten. I’ll reward you. Two extra portions of gruel for you at the camp this evening.

ALISTAIR: We have other food, you know. You don’t have to feed us gruel all the time.

BLAKE: And you don’t have to talk, but that’s never stopped you.

MORRIGAN: [SIGHS WISTFULLY.] Have I ever told you that I’d ride you like a stallion if you were a guy?

BLAKE: You have, and it never stops being off-putting.

MORRIGAN: You know it, tiger.

BLAKE: You know, the only reason I’m even still sane is that we have just been through a ridiculous mess that was longer than the stupid elf forest and the stupid wizard tower combined. So I know we’re done. Okay? This has to be the end.

[Because BLAKE still has not learned to TEMPT FATE for some reason, a DWARF appears on the rocky cliffs above them, looking down, even as a huge metal gate SLAMS SHUT behind the party.]

CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS: Done? Fools! You have an entire dungeon left, bwahahahahahahaha!

OGHREN: Honey bear!

WACK-A-DOODLE DANDY: Eh? Who are you?

OGHREN: It’s me! Oghren!

ONE PICKAXE SHORT OF A DWARF MINE: Who?

OGHREN: … Your husband? You… we were married for years?

LOONEY TUNES, WELCOME TO THE SPACE JAM: Gonna have to be more specific. I used to have a lot of relatives, before I fed them all to the darkspawn to further my insane goals. They all kind of blend together in the razor-filled soup that is my mind. [PAUSES.] Bwahahahahahahaha!

OGHREN: *sigh* Everyone, this is Branka.

BLAKE: [BLINKS a few times.] So, hey, Leliana, you may have just graduated to having the second-worst ex out of anyone in the party. Congrats.

LELIANA: Ze trick is to shine by comparison.

BRANKA: None may shine but Branka! Am I not the greatest of all dwarves? Did I not come up with the brilliant plan to find the Anvil of the Void by opening the door and letting infinite darkspawn funnel in until the traps in front of it just stop working from getting too much blood in them? Did I not abandon all of my friends and family to a fate worse than death, letting them be defiled and mutated into hideous bloated monsters, in order to ensure this supply?

[SILENCE.]

BLAKE: I… um… holy shit, did you?

BRANKA: I did!

BLAKE: Sweet Andraste’s ass. Leliana, the ambiguity is gone. You win. You win forever. I miss Marjolaine. I would pay literal money to have Marjolaine standing here in front of us right now.

LELIANA: [Grins SMUGLY.]

STEN: I do believe we have met a leader worse than our own. I had considered this to be nearly impossible. But the world is a strange and many-faceted place, full of new experiences and diverse peoples. [PAUSE.] I look forward to the day my people conquer and destroy it all.

BLAKE: Hey. Eat a dick, buddy.

STEN: I am not hungry.

BRANKA: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You’ll need to find your way through all the traps and reach the Anvil of the Void to escape this terrible dungeon, you fools! [PAUSE] BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

MORRIGAN: I actually forgot she was here. Do you suppose we should proceed forward? I should like to have this Anvil for my own use, of course, but honestly more than anything I suspect we’ll need to kill that one at the end of this whole mess, and I deeply wish to.

OGHREN: We’re not killing her, crazy-tits! She’s my wife!

MORRIGAN: You saying that only makes me want to kill her more.

WYNNE: Sweet Andraste, I think I actually semi-agree with Morrigan.

MORRIGAN: That’s weird.

BRANKA: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

MORRIGAN: Though also, in this one case, understandable.

BLAKE: Wow. I… this might be the first time we’ve all agreed on something. Branka is annoying enough to kill. Unanimous vote?

OGHREN: I said no!

BLAKE: Unanimous it is.

[SCENE: A cave that looks pretty much like EVERY cave. The DEEP ROADS are so INTERESTING.]

BLAKE: All right. She said there would be traps, so we can assume things are going to be troublesome here.

LELIANA: But my love, we ‘ave me ‘ere to disarm all ze traps we might see.

BLAKE: Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! Y-you’re gonna disarm the trapsHAHAHAHAHAHA!

LELIANA: Zis makes you happy, I see.

BLAKE: [WIPES AWAY a tear of mirth.] S-sure. That’s why I was laughing. I can’t think of any other reason I might be laughing. It’s not as though every single trap we’ve ever encountered in this entire game has exploded in our faces because you don’t notice them until we’re already standing in them half the time. I’d never think such things.

LELIANA: I know vous would not. Now, as my approval has hit ze high 70’s and we ‘ave done my sidequest, let us make passionate love when next we return to camp.

BLAKE: … … … Sometimes you people being dumbasses works out for me.

ALISTAIR: I love you too, dear.

[BLAKE reaches out and pushes ALISTAIR one step FORWARD, setting off a HORRIBLE TRAP.]

LELIANA: [OBSERVING THIS] Trap, right ahead!

[The HALLWAY fills with POISONOUS GAS, causing ALISTAIR to fall to his knees and begin CHOKING to DEATH. Even as this occurs, GOLEMS wake up on either side of the HALLWAY, preparing to PULVERIZE him.]

MORRIGAN: ‘Tis like every birthday present my mother never bothered to give me because birthdays are for the weak, delivered to me all at once.

WYNNE: [NARROWS EYES.] You people just delight in making my job harder, don’t you? You kill Alistair all you want, and then I have to heal him. You think that’s easy? Or fun? I would like to have time to read a nice book from time to time, not just put everyone’s kidneys back in their bodies.

ALISTAIR: Sweet Andraste my kidneys! They’re out of my body, because of the golems!

WYNNE: You’re being quite inconvenient, young man!

[SCENE: The NEXT HALLWAY.]

BLAKE: Okay. Everyone, this hallways seems much nicer than the first one. I suspect it to be a, you know, breather after the first hallway. I think that one of you should get to lead the way, and really enjoy it.

STEN: I can see the golems standing there. On the sides.

BLAKE: No, you don’t.

STEN: Yes, I do. I see them.

BLAKE: They might not be golems. They might just be statues.

STEN: They look exactly like the other golems, from the first hallway. Whoever goes first will clearly be beaten horribly by them.

BLAKE: We don’t know that. And I think it’s worth sending in Oghren in first to check.

STEN: Oh. I didn’t realize you were building to that. Yes, then, I agree.

OGHREN: The hell, you guys?!

DOG: Woof, woof!

OGHREN: Thank you.

BLAKE: He was actually saying that your smell sickens him and he hopes your death removes it from the world.

OGHREN: … Yer dog’s a jerk.

BLAKE: [Reaches out a HAND, and shoves OGHREN one step FORWARD.]

[NOTHING happens.]

OGHREN: … … Huh. Maybe this hallway actually was a breather. I mean, nothing seems to be…

[GIANT RAZOR-EDGED BUZZSAWS erupt from the floor and ceiling, burying OGHREN in a STORM of BLADES.]

MORRIGAN: Whoever designed this place has a very interesting sense of humor. I wonder if they design swamp cottages? I really was looking to trade up.

BLAKE: On the plus side, the golems don’t seem to have woken… oh, never mind, there they do.

OGHREN: Oh ancestors, my kidneys!

LELIANA: Trap, right ahead!

[SCENE: The FINAL puzzle room. It is a large, open chamber, with a large FOUR-FACED STATUE in the middle surrounded by ANVILS.]

BLAKE: Okay, so this chamber is probably the breather one. Zevran, you go first!

ZEVRAN: I thought you liked me.

BLAKE: I’m running low on sacrificial lambs.

ZEVRAN: Send Morrigan!

BLAKE: She’s scarier than you.

MORRIGAN: It’s true!

ZEVRAN: [Sighs DEEPLY and steps FORWARD.]

STATUE: [Comes ALIVE and begins spawning an ARMY OF GHOSTS.]

ZEVRAN: Oh, that isn’t so bad. At least no poison gas or razor blades hit me.

ALISTAIR: Screw you.

OGHREN: Seriously.

[What FOLLOWS is what is known in video-game parlance as a PUZZLE BOSS. In this particular case, the HEROES must destroy the GHOSTS, which causes an ANVIL to activate. Then you ACTIVATE the anvil to attack the MAIN STATUE. This sounds kind of INTERESTING.]

[It is NOT.]

ZEVRAN: *Yawn*

MORRIGAN: Oh my non-existent Maker, these things are so tedious. We’ve turned on these damnable anvils five times already and it’s just won’t end.

BLAKE: I think it’s just three more, guys. Come on, this is clearly meant to be the puzzle that makes people stop coming for the Anvil of the Void because they get bored and go grab lunch instead. We just have to power through it.

WYNNE: I could do without the statue shooting just enough damage to be annoying but not enough to kill anyone.

BLAKE: We could all do without that, Wynne, but you don’t see us whining about it.

LELIANA: Vould anyone like to take a break for lunch? We ‘ave been in ze Deep Roads for a long time, and zis stupid boss…

BLAKE: No! Look, we have to be near the end. I know it’s tedious, but we gotta get this done, and then we go back to the surface and never, ever come back.

ALISTAIR: Who would possibly be cruel enough to design this place?

[SCENE: BIOWARE OFFICES.]

PROGRAMMER: Hey, Bob. We have all the major quests for Dragon Age: Origins ready except the two you were supposed to design. Do you happen to have them set?

RAOUL: [Twists his SINISTER MOUSTACHE while looking with GLEE at the completed maps for the DEEP ROADS and the CIRCLE TOWER. They take up his ENTIRE DESK and most of the one NEXT to it.] Yes… yesssssssssssss…. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

PROGRAMMER: You’ve been weird ever since you grew that moustache, Bob.

[SCENE: The ANVIL OF THE VOID. The great device itself gleams with flame; and who can say whether this is the POWER within it, or merely the UNTOLD MAJESTY of the lava fields it OVERLOOKS? Standing before it is the most ORNATE and POWERFUL of all golems, forged not from STONE but from interlocking, rune-covered STEEL PLATES. It gives off an aura of quiet power and DIGNITY.]

BLAKE: You can go to Hell and die, jackass.

GOLEM: … Excuse me?

BLAKE: Oh. OH! I’m sorry. I thought you were going to be another goddamn boss fight. Just that we’ve gone through like six at this point.

GOLEM: Oh. Right, you must be the ones I heard fighting the four-faced statue. Did you have fun?

BLAKE: …

MORRIGAN: I’m going to kill it and make a cooking pot of its skull.

ZEVRAN: I shall cook delightful Antivan dishes in it.

DOG: Bark, bark.

BLAKE: You don’t want to know what he said. And now, let’s all kill this thing.

GOLEM: Wait, wait. I would like to offer you an alternative path. You see, I may look like a giant metal golem, but I am actually Caridin, the original creator of this mighty anvil you see before you.

BLAKE: Huh. Interesting. I’m sorry I called you a thing, then. Kill this guy, everyone.

CARIDIN: Would you please stop.

BLAKE: Sorry, I’m in a bad mood. I’ll allow you to talk.

MORRIGAN: But my cooking pot!

BLAKE: I will buy you a cooking pot.

MORRIGAN: You never let me have anything I want.

BLAKE: We would get you things that you want, but you always want evil! Caridin, just ignore her, she’s the evil one.

CARIDIN: I’m actually getting the impression most of you are pretty evil.

BLAKE: Leliana and Wynne are nice.

ALISTAIR: What about me?

BLAKE: You don’t count, because to be ‘good’ you have to be smart enough to have some general idea of what is going on around you in the universe. Much like a goldfish isn’t good or evil, you aren’t.

ALISTAIR: I love you too, dear.

CARIDIN: … Sure. Anyway, what I was going to say here, is that you should actually destroy this Anvil. Because you see, Golems are people.

BLAKE: Oh. Um. I should probably mention we killed like twelve on our way here.

CARIDIN: I… oh, shit. Was one of those Jeff? Because Jeff owed me twenty silver.

ALISTAIR: How would we know?

CARIDIN: He was made of stone.

LELIANA: Zat narrows it down very little. Also, how are ze golems made of ze people? I ‘ave seen zem, and zey are in fact made of ze stone, or in vous case ze metal.

CARIDIN: … What even is your accent?

BLAKE: Hey! We’ve already been over that. It doesn’t need to make sense. Tell us the story of your stupid past and don’t lead us off on any tangents, or we’ll be on it for another damn hour.

ALISTAIR: Hey, have you guys ever thought about pudding?

BLAKE: NO TANGENTS.

CARIDIN: Well. The way I discovered to make golems was to shove a person into a giant rock suit, and then pour molten hot magic rocks on them. But it wasn’t until they made me a golem that I realized: this was bad.

BLAKE: ……………….

LELIANA: ………………….

WYNNE: ………………….

MORRIGAN: I don’t see the issue.

BLAKE: Morrigan! Stop helping!

WYNNE: You truly didn’t see the issue with pouring molten rock on your people, sir golem-dwarf?

CARIDIN: Well, they were poor.

MORRIGAN: Makes perfect sense to me!

ZEVRAN: You terrify me. And I am an assassin.

STEN: In my country, we would have cut his eyes out and sewn his mouth shut.

ZEVRAN: Erm… as punishment for… mutilating thousands of his own people?

STEN: No, we just do that to anyone who uses magic. As is right and proper.

ZEVRAN: I… am an assassin. And I am not the scariest person on this team. I… how did this happen? I mean, I still have my position as the sexy one, but still.

BLAKE: Oh, whatever. You know what? I don’t even care. Let’s just break this thing and go home, it’s not like we actually like Bhelen. No need for another stupid boss fight.

BRANKA: DID SOMEONE ORDER ANOTHER STUPID BOSS FIGHT?!

BLAKE: [Kind of TWITCHES.]

[SCENE: ORZAMMAR, about a MONTH LATER. The team WANDERS into the CITY, because to WALK into a city you need to have some DIGNITY REMAINING. NOBODY looks very HAPPY, nobody is TALKING, and BLAKE still has a bit of BRANKA on her.]

OGHREN: …. Did ya really have to cut off her…

BLAKE: I SWEAR I WILL EAT YOUR HEART.

STEN: She may in fact do it. Her mind is unstable. [PAUSES] More than the rest of you, I mean.

LELIANA: Oh, and you are ze paragon of sanity?

STEN: I am a member of a fanatical expansionist brainwashing cult. [PAUSES] So yes.

WYNNE: I miss my demon-infested tower.

OGHREN: But now, seriously, you cut off her-

BLAKE: HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

[SCENE: Inside the DWARVEN ASSEMBLY HALL.]

BHELEN: I should be king!

HARROWMONT: Nuh-uh!

BHELEN: Uh-huh!

DWARVEN POLITICIAN: Sweet ancestors, the chance to see such wondrous political masters at work is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

DWARVEN POLITICIAN 2: The pinnacle of dwarven culture, we see before us.

BHELEN: You smell!

HARROWMONT: Your mom smells!

[The AIR grows COLD. BLAKE enters. Nobody seems HAPPY TO SEE HER.]

BLAKE: Everyone. Shut up. Bhelen, you are king now. Paragon said so. And if anyone questions it, I will gut everyone in this room.

HARROWMONT: Which para-

[SCENE: BHELEN’s THRONE ROOM.]

BHELEN: I can’t believe she cut off all their-

OGHREN: Shit, quiet, she’s waking up, don’t let her hear you say that.

BLAKE: Uuuuugh… my head hurts…

MORRIGAN: [With one BLACK EYE, and walking on CRUTCHES.] Oh, yes, once again the real problem is how uncomfortable you are. Bitch.

ALISTAIR: Are you okay, my little rose blossom? I’m afraid you had a… tiny episode.

WYNNE: The Dwarves no longer have a senate. I’m not sure that’s tiny.

LELIANA: She was not foaming at ze mouth like after ze mage tower, that’s a step in ze right direction.

ZEVRAN: I have to guess the new king won’t be happy, though…

BHELEN: Actually, I was probably going to have them all killed and blame it on foreigners eventually. Now I don’t have to put in the effort, so hey, win-win.

BLAKE: … … … I think I have dwarf blood in my mouth.

STEN: There was some biting. It was quite efficient. I assume you learned it from your exceptional dog.

DOG: Bark, bark!

STEN: You remain the only one of this group I respect.

BLAKE: I… ugh. You know what, screw it. Things ended well…

WYNNE: Not for the dwarves you bit to death!

BLAKE: Not counting them. And Bhelen will give me his army now. Won’t he?

BHELEN: Of course. The dwarves always stand ready to face our ancient foes, the Darkspawn, be it beneath the ground or above it. I shall give you the sum total of my military force, the mightiest army on Thedas. I shall give you an overwhelming horde of professional killers, each one weaned on the blood of their foes. I shall give you… [PAUSE for DRAMATIC EFFECT]… fifty soldiers!

[BLAKE takes this information IN.]

[SCENE: The ROYAL PALACE in DENERIM]

LOGHAIN: So my daughter, the queen? She was asking if I had her husband killed to take his throne and now I’m locking her in the palace so she can’t run the country without me.

TIM CURRY: Oh shit, what did you tell her?

LOGHAIN: I kind of coughed and pretended I didn’t hear her. I mean, how do you reply to that?

TIM CURRY: We should kill her.

LOGHAIN: I… what? No. She’s my daughter, you asshole. We’re not killing her.

TIM CURRY: I’d kill her if she was my daughter. Watch, let me get my daughter.

LOGHAIN: No! Dude, nobody’s daughter is getting killed. We’ll just keep her locked up until I defeat everyone who thinks I shouldn’t be running the country, then kill all the Grey Wardens, then defeat the infinite horde of monsters. It’s all just tactics, really. Then she can have her country back.

TIM CURRY: I’ll get a knife.

LOGHAIN: Stop that. Seriously, I’m really questioning why I let you in on this conspira-

[An ear-splitting SHRIEK, like a TORTURED CAT being STEPPED ON by an ELEPHANT with a FOOT INFECTION that is being RIDDEN by an easily started OPERA SINGER, rings through the PALACE. No, the WORLD. Carried by the endless chasms of the DEEP ROADS, it ECHOES into ETERNITY, bringing with it a WAVE of almost PALPABLE FRUSTRATION that makes everyone who hears it feel SLIGHTLY WORSE about the way their LIFE has been going so far.]

LOGHAIN: …

TIM CURRY: …

LOGHAIN: You know, I got the strangest feeling that was like, exactly fifty dwarves worth of rage. Don’t ask me why. Weird, right?

TIM CURRY: So… um… wanna sell some city elves into slavery to pay for our war?

LOGHAIN: Do I ever!

#Dragon Age: Origins #Fanfic #My Writing #days of our dragon age

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vhyral · 8 years

Text

Blooded Hands, Bleeding Hearts

How do I do this?

Pairings: Anna Hawke x Fenris, Reyna Hawke x Orsino, Garrett Hawke x Anders, Vatriel Mahariel x Zevran Arainai

Worldstate: Vatriel Mahariel is the Hero of Ferelden and Warden Commander, Garrett, Reyna and Anna Hawke are the three older siblings of Carver and Bethany Hawke with Reyna being the Champion of Kirkwall

Setting: Garrett and Anna Hawke have accompanied the Inquisitor to the siege of Adamant Fortress. This ficlet follows the party’s last moments in the Fade and the aftermath of the battle. Fenris and Anders arrive in Skyhold, seeking their respective Hawkes.

Words: 4775

Her hands are slick with red, her daggers slowly sliding out of her tightly clenched grip. The ghouls- no, the demons- whatever the corpses with the milky eyes and the black teeth are, they melt into nothing once slashed open and leave scars on her as farewell gifts. The Fade-air is thick and liquid when she breathes between strikes, clinging on the rogue’s clothes and dumping her hair.

It is not made to be breathed by creatures of flesh and blood, Anna Hawke thinks. It feels like she’s choking on honey.

“We cannot delay!” Cassandra’s voice echoes, after the last of the demons has been reduced to dust. “It knows we’re here.”

The Inquisitor scrambles closer, the little elf’s features drawn as she speaks with the warrior, casting worried stares towards the kneeling Warden ahead. She whispers and motions and the Seeker grunts. Two minutes, she issues and joins Blackwall at his rounds, circling their perimeter, their boots sloshing through the muddy, ankle-deep waters. Meanwhile, the bald mage walks to the Inquisitor and leans closer to her as if to share a thought. The wild boy with the hat- Cole- trips right behind him, tagging at his robes. Solas’ eyes have been sparkling with awe non-stop, even when they meet with the Fade horrors. Anna frowns and turns to her brother.

Garrett is at her side like always, his armor glinting under the dim green fade-light. He has been there since they fell into this pit of magic and uncertainty, guarding her back, and for a second, between the smoke and the smell of his thunderbolts scorching the stones near her feet, it feels the faintest like Kirkwall, like the life they had built with blood and sweat before being forced to flee again.

“I never thought I’d miss the smell of Darktown’s sewers yet here we are.” She gives him a tired smile and Garrett shines her one of his own, crooked and soul warming.

"Don't let Varric hear you say that." he laughs.

“I’m literally right over here, Hawke.” The dwarf rolls his eyes at them from where he had perched himself during the fight, on top a nearby rock. A fade-rock. It would not surprise Anna if it sprouted legs and began crawling around with the dwarf riding it like a mighty stead carrying him into battle.

"We will be fine.” Garrett promises, scratching at the remnants of a demon’s claws on the dark metal around his neck. “But we have to move. Soon.”

Further down the narrow path, the Warden Commander is on her knees, her elven lover’s arms around her, holding her close, holding her stable. Her own hands squeeze over her lower abdomen, paperwhite and trembling as she heaves.

"Visiting." Fenris says to the guard that stopped them underneath the Inquisition flags, right before they crossed the huge wooden doors. Behind him, a man is yelling to another guard, trying to gain access to the castle for his goat while a gilded wagon attempts to drive through the doors only to be stopped by flailing Inquisition soldiers.

Morning had already passed when he and Anders had caught the first glimpse of Skyhold from across the rocky mountain landscape, the snow on its tallest towers thick and glistening to the evening sun. The Grand Gates of the stronghold were still wide open when they reached them, letting the colorful, loud crowd of soldiers, merchants and refugees come and go under the watchful eyes of the guards.

"We were invited by Varric Tethras. Here."

The letter comes out neatly folded if not a bit worn out from use- a pretty stellar condition after having travelled half of Thedas in the chest pocket of his cloak. The other man's eyes flutter quickly over the few written lines, straight to the signature at the bottom of the page. There isn't much for him to skip and after weeks of reading it by the campfire, Fenris knows each word by heart.

Broody, it reads, I tried to convey your words to our dearest Hawke. I truly did, once. I'm sorry but for all my charms, Stabby seems to be having none of it- the answer is still no. The hiss I received must have been the shortest conversation I've have had since the Seeker ceased attempting to communicate with me with grunts. The Inquisitor says any friends of mine are welcome in Skyhold- Chipper's a good kid but unless you want your head shaved by an angry redhaired, I'd advise you against accepting any kind of invitations for this part of Thedas.

Then a scratched up line, like someone had snatched the parchment up and managed to scribble a few words before the letter was retrieved. Fenris, the big cursive letters almost screamed with her voice, you over worrying fool! We’ve talked about this. Extensively. I am a grown ass woman and I PROMISE I will roast you with red peppers if I see one lock of fucking white hair around-

These words he read every night before going to sleep. She had not written to him after reaching Skyhold. Too dangerous, too easy to get stolen and Anna never had enough patience to slap down a code instead of her bare thoughts. There was a huge smudge of inked fingertips after her scribbles and above Varric’s signature and the guard’s eyebrow raises noticeably when he reaches the part.

��Master Tethras is usually in the Main Hall this time of the day.” Fenris accepts the letter back with a nod and folds it carefully, slipping it back over his heart.

“He’s not here.”

The elf is stomping around in circles in front of the table one of the kitchen servants guided them to when they asked for Master Tethras. It is small and round, made of well polished pine wood and placed strategically in front of one of the Hall’s many fireplaces. Varric isn’t there but his papers are- stashed parchments, books, ink bottles and more pens than one single dwarf could possibly use neatly organized in one corner.

Anders, strangely, has claimed for himself the seat closer to the fireplace. He is now deftly swirling a pen between his fingers, making its short, black feather jolt and shed a little. His hood has been thrown back- leaving it on would attract more eyes than taking it off, he scoffed when Fenris grimaced. True, with the poor excuse of a beard he has grown around his chin, comically resembling Garrett’s- Fenris had tried not to snort the first time he had seen it-, his golden hair cut short and greying, the mage looks roughly ten years older and is hardly resembling the man that once set Kirkwall- and perhaps the whole of Thedas- on fire.

“You’re… feigning calmness.” Fenris side eyes him. Anders had been restless during their ride through Ferelden, pushing his horse forward to lengths he usually wouldn’t try to reach, spending nights awake and staring at the fire flakes as they rose towards the night sky. Now, he sits idly back on the chair, seemingly relaxed. Yet, after a second, more careful glance, it is obvious that he’s doing a shitty job at concealing it- the mage’s shoulders are visibly stiff and his features drawn, lips pressed together as he keeps his eyes squarely on the pen.

“It’s called keeping a low profile.” he murmurs, stealing a glance around the main hall. People had stared for a bit when they had first entered but visitors are nothing new for Skyhold and after an hour, they now are as good as another piece of decoration. “They’re in an emergency meeting and since you didn’t want to give your name and we can’t quite give mine, we weren’t even announced. No one's going to come running out of there to meet us any time soon.”

Fenris lets out a groan. They are so close, this waiting is killing him. The rumours have been bad but the uncertainty they carried is the worst of it all and the elf can feel himself almost vibrating where he stands, his hands flexing from and into fists at his sides.

The Champion of Kirkwall has fallen. Hawke is dead.

Both Anders and him had walked the long way to the Inquisition’s stronghold with one thought tormenting them every passing hour.

Which Hawke?

The ‘Champion of Kirkwall’ had been left as an open term on purpose, for safety, and they had all agreed to it. It was once the title Reyna Hawke carried, her legacy from almost being impaled on the Arishok’s spear during what now was one of the most widely known duels in Thedas. Yet even in the very city of Kirkwall, the title had been changing hands from one day to the other- after all, there were three Hawkes with exceptional abilities and where Reyna would clean a street in Hightown from thieves, Anna would locate someone’s lost kid the next day and both deeds would be deemed as done by the Champion. When they fled, rumor mingled with gossip and the Tale of the Champion, expertly written as to not give out much about the Champion’s family, had obscured the fact that there were more Hawkes running around Thedas than anyone could ever handle.

But Reyna never set foot in Skyhold, both of them are sure about that. The last letter that had arrived with her sand colored hawk barely a month ago spoke of Antiva and a small, sunny room rented near the Port. It spoke of the sudden decline of Orsino’s health and her reluctant- yeah, right, Anna had laughed- decision to aid the elder mage until he overcame his illness. Thus, only two Hawkes had ever arrived at Skyhold, no matter how strongly Fenris had opposed to the idea when Anna had come to him to talk. And now, someone is supposedly dead and he can feel his chest hurt every time he catches himself wishing that it isn’t her.

He scans the grand hall around him. Dust is dancing in the sunlight pouring in from the huge glass windows, swirling over the lit torches lining its walls. An elf in scout armor is walking their way and he takes a step to the side, placing himself in her path.

“Serah.” he calls. She blinks his way, one of her ears twitching over short, red hair. He gives her a second for the usual quick scan of his face. Her eyes widen the slightest to his tattoos and Fenris asks.

“Where to the Ambassador’s room?”

“What are you planning to do?” Anders is on his feet and following him closely as Fenris walks with long, sure strides across the Hall.

“I’m going to announce myself.”

“It’s impossible to outrun that!”

There’s blood running down Cassandra’s forehead as she yells, her eyes stuck up and glinting dangerously under the green Fade fires. The smell of sulfur is on the air, burning their noses, the hissing of raw Fade energy hissing at the edges of their hair, remains of the recent battle against the Nightmare.

“Go!” comes a hoarse order from behind their backs, “I’ll keep it busy.”

“Have you gone insane?!” Anna has never heard Zevran’s voice ring as thickly and ominously as right now. He grabs the Warden Commander’s arm when she swirls around, his fingers closing in what looks like a death grip. “We’re going.” he growls at her.

“Since when are you making my decisions for me, Zevran?” she hisses back, trying to shake his hand off but the muscles on the Crow’s arm flex and he tags her closer instead, her boots splashing through the murky waters. She glares daggers at him and he shakes his head.

“Since you, my dear Warden, seem to have lost your good judgement.”

“This is NOT the time for this!” Cassandra howls at the same time as a bellow crashes into their ears- the demon is recovering and it will soon be coming for them.

“Knives and fire and steel that cuts, too real, too solid, permanent, burning! Gut them, burn them, chain them up and drink them dry!” Cole wails and then doubles down and holds his head, grunting in pain. The Inquisitor rubs a comforting hand down his back.

“I can give you at least five.” Mahariel insists. “Run and you’ll make it. I have fought uglier things that this in the past.”

“Andraste’s flaming underpants, Vatriel-”

Thunder booms behind them and Anna jumps.

“If you could hurry it up a bit, thank you very much.” Garrett huffs from their rear guard. He raises his arms above his head and lets lightning rain down upon the few demons that have found the courage to slither through the scorched battleground from before and come after them. “I mean it’s not like we have a giant spider coming for our sorry asses here or anything. I can handle this, sure.”

Anna turns around, teeth tearing at her lips as she adjusts the grip on her carved knives. Her muscles still feel sore from their recent fights as she steps towards the demons, melting into the shadows. All she wants is warm food and cold beer and to put her feet up in front of a fireplace without something being out for her neck.

“Go back. To being. Fucking mist.” she hisses as she plunges a dagger deep enough into a ghoul’s eye, it sinks to the hilt. An arrow zooms by her ear as Varric falls into work alongside them.

“I can put up a shield.” she hears the Inquisitor’s voice. “It can hold for a while until you all get out of here and I’m a fast runner-”

“Not open for discussion.” the Seeker cuts her and Lavellan groans.

“Cassandra-”

“A barrier could indeed be held for longer than usual here in the Fade.” Solas offers. “But to risk sacrificing you would be ill adviced if not mindless.”

“This is the Wardens’ fault, all of it.” The Commander’s voice sounds adamant. “No, Zevran. This is MY responsibility.

“It is not even just YOU that would have to stay back anymore!” the Antivan snaps. Anna throws her dagger to a nearby crawling spiderling. It hits it square between its open jaws and it evaporates with a screech. “Good riddance, you freaky nug.” Garrett laughs. “Good one, kid.”

“Sir? Sir, please! You cannot go in there!”

Josephine finds herself at a loss when the strangers first storm right through her doors. She has no meeting arranged for the next three hours and the Council is not yet done. She had briefly returned to her desk to fetch a couple of official documents when the door had swung open, smooth on well oiled hinges. It hits the wall behind it with a bang, making her jump and sending several of the parchments she had been carrying to the floor.

“This area is off limits!” she states now, sharpening her tone and stepping forward to quickly slip her body in between the unknown pair of men that rushes inside and the inner door that leads to the War Room. A flutter of her eyes and the scout that had arrived seconds earlier to deliver a report quietly excuses himself back to the Hall. Hopefully the guards will be here soon enough. “You can’t just barge in here like this, gentlemen, please. We can talk this out.”

“Apologies, Serah,” the elf at the front stops a few steps away from her and speaks, looking her square in the eyes, “but we have come to see the Hawke siblings.”

His pupils are big, expressive and brightly green, mesmerizing as he firmly holds her gaze, and Josephine gives him a quick appraisal now that he is finally standing still instead of marching towards her.

“I’m afraid the Council is private-” she begins.

And then she sees them, where they’re poking from his scarf, around his neck and up his chin, the white tattoos with the faint blue iridescence that curl against dark skin. The ambassador knows better than to let her surprise show- she lets the initial rush of adrenaline of having this very elf right in front of her, here in Skyhold, pass. The man behind him shifts on his feet and Josephine eyes him carefully. He is wearing a hood that partially hid his face but she can make out the tiniest hint of blonde. She inhales sharply- if that is who she thinks he is, Cassandra won’t be happy at all.

Then comes dread- they are here for a reason. They are here for Hawke.

“Serah Fenris. Serah.” she motions towards the chairs of her office. “If you have a minute.”

“Go!”

Varric’s face is a mess of pain, loss and bitter understanding. “Garrett.” he croaks.

“The woman is with child, Varric.” The tall man rolls his staff in his hands before looking up, clear blue eyes meeting with the deep green of the Warden Commander. “And who’s better suited to fight in the Fade than a mage?”

“My brother,” he says loudly for her to hear, “he’s a Warden. If you meet Carver Hawke, let him know that his brother was very proud of him. Tell him his brother loved him, dearly, deeply, always.”

“That should embarrass him out of his grief pretty quickly.” he chuckles.

“No! Garrett!” Anna lunges herself at him, a hand grasping his wrist, the other one closing into a fist around the fabric of his garments. “This is bullshit!” she roars. “You’re not staying here! I’m not leaving you in this hell!”

She glares at him and Garrett gives her a small, weary smile- his free hand finds its way to her cheek and cups it softly- he smells of blood and sweat and ash but so does she and it’s a familiar smell.

“There’s no other way.” His voice is soft. “We will never outrun the Nightmare.”

She can feel a lump forming in her throat, the familiar pressure behind her eyes. She grits her teeth instead and shakes her head violently, scanning the area around them. They can hide, they can split up and try to confuse it, she can knife the demon in its blasted, cursed eyes-

His hand, still warm on her cheek, tags gently, guiding her eyes back on his face, keeping them there. Garrett’s cheeks and forehead are smeared with black and his lower lip sports a blood red cut- his breathing is hitched but he’s smiling softly at her and the rogue feels her chest constrict.

“There’s no other way, Anna.” he breathes. His forehead comes to meet with hers and her hands let go of everything to come cup his temples, her fingers hooking into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it came to this. You’ll have to explain to Reyna, Bethany… to Anders-”

“I’m staying.” Her voice is ragged, her lips dry. “If you’re staying, I’ll be with you to the end.”

“Anna…”

“No, no!” she hisses. “You get to throw your life away but I can’t do the same for you? I’m staying, Garrett. You are my- I’m not going, I’m not losing you.”

Varric’s voice is hoarse behind her. “Kid…”

“Varric.” Her heart is fluttering like a caged bird now- her body trembles in the thought of what’s to come and then steels, warms up and tightens as she turns to face the dwarf. She didn’t come seeking death but leaving Garrett behind feels like a death in its own and she won’t have it. In a corner of her mind, somewhere, a small voice whispers- maybe with the two of us, we can win, we can make it, the two of us, together.

“You have to write to him.” she tells the dwarf. “Fenris. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him, now and forever.”

Varric’s face twists into a mass of pain to her words, his knuckles turning white where he holds Bianca. “Kid,” he shakes his head, “not like this.”

Something explodes in the distant and the ground underneath their feet shakes, the rumbling that echoes through the air growing louder instead of dying down. Anna unsheathes her knives as Blackwall lets out a war cry.

“We don’t have any more time!” he yells. “We have to leave. NOW!”

“And so, we’re out of time.” Garrett huffs.

“Wha-”

She turns- and then her limbs suddenly feel heavy, getting glued into place with every muscle that she tries to move.

“Garrett!’ she croaks bewildered. “Garrett, what-”

His hand is pointing towards her, lit with arcane energy and deep lines form on his forehead as she stares at him. Light pillars flicker around her and that’s when she realises the spell being cast on her.

“Spirit Cage?” she shouts. “Spirit Cage, on ME? Garrett! Let me go! Let me go right now!”

“Varric!” her brother yells instead. “Blackwall! Get her out of here, NOW!”

“No! NO!” The men’s hands are on her shoulders then, around her waist, pulling her, dragging her with them and Anna struggles against the invisible ropes that keep her arms from pushing them away, her legs from kicking. She’s being carried away and for every second passing, Garrett’s getting further away as he flexes his arms and firmly grabs his staff.

“Garrett!” she screams. People are yelling around her as they run. Blackwall is grunting under her weight and Zevran’s voice is encouraging his wife forwards from somewhere at the head of the line but all Anna can see is the tall man they’re leaving behind, the glinting of the ice blue gem of his staff, like a beacon in a sea of green.

“GARRETT, NO! NOT LIKE THIS! GARRETT!” Her throat feels like being teared up from the inside out. “GARRETT!”

At the distance, her brother looks back one last time and his voice carries over the ominous rumble when he yells.

“I love you.”

The words reach her just as the monstrous demon breaks through the hill hiding them from its view all this time. It comes with its million legs thrashing and an explosion of flying rocks and fire and Garrett turns to face it, small in the distance and with his armor shining with swirling mana.

She doesn’t feel remorse when the spell loosens and she beats against Blackwall’s helmet with all the strength she can find in her, when she kicks Varric in the shoulder while trying to break free. She doesn’t see the rift’s edges when they jump through it and crash against hard stone, knees and elbows bleeding as they scrape against the floor.

She only keeps on screaming as she’s held back from jumping back in, someone’s arms around her own, Varric’s hands against her chest as the Inquisitor stands and waits for a heartbeat and then for some more and when no one comes through, she finally raises her hand and blinding green flashes.

She screams harder than ever when he can’t hear her anymore.

“… Kid?”

Anna jumps, knocking down one of the flags the Inquisition advisors use to pinpoint missions on their map.

“Shit.” she mutters and reaches down. The damned thing has rolled further down the war table and she gets on her knees to get it. “Fuck.” she repeats. “Sorry.”

She straightens back up and catches the Inquisitor stealing a glance at her. Lavellan’s eyes are clouded but she averts them fast when Anna stares back and turns to where Leliana and Cullen are bickering.

“You ok?”

Varric usually doesn’t participate in Council meetings- a case has come up deeply connected to Kirkwall though and his presence has been requested. He has not taken the task with joy but he has come nonetheless. Anna knows he is here mostly for her. He has been trying to be in her immediate perimeter ever since they returned from Adamant Fortress.

She wishes he didn’t.

“Are you?” she rumbles.

Pain flashes across the dwarf’s face and the rogue feels the sting of her words coming right back at her.

“Damn it, Varric.” she sighs. “Sorry. I… don’t- this… it’s difficult.”

“I know.” He scratches his chin, absentmindedly staring at the advisors and the Inquisitor trying to find some middle ground over a mission. “Believe me, Kid, I know.”

“Did you write? To everyone.”

He shakes his head.

“The words won’t come.”

How do you write about something that doesn’t feel real? Several days have passed and still, whenever she manages to make herself faint, late at night, she wakes up the next morning with a few blissful seconds where everything feel like just another dream. Where Garrett bangs on her door with plates full of pancakes. Where Dog and her are a warm mess on her bed, the mabari drooling on her hair. And then, Garrett never comes and Dog is old and a world away from her, with the other half of her heart, and she has to truly wake up and keep on going, living, in a world with muted colors.

She has to write to Fenris, to let him know that she is alive, that she is ok. She knows but her fingers refuse to ink the words and the parchment is waiting half empty on her desk.

“What is taking Josephine so long?” Leliana wonders from the other side of the table. “It has been ten minutes already.”

“I should go check.” the Inquisitor turns. “Maybe she needs some help.”

There it is, a window out of this room, away from talks for future expeditions- all she wants at the moment and so Anna sets the little flag back on the table. “Let me. I could use some fresh air.”

“Ask her to bring all recent correspondence with Duke Dumont, yes?”

“No, not you, Varric.” Cullen calls when the dwarf motions to follow her to the door. “We just got to the requests from Kirkwall, we need your assistance.”

Varric shrugs, gives her a strained look and drags himself back to the war table, looking not pleased at all. Anna on the other hand rather prefers this turn of events- he is so stricken with grief and she can’t deal with this right now. She needs space.

“Later, Varric.” she waves, letting the doors close behind her.

She is glad no one has fixed the hole in the wall between the war room and Josephine’s office. She gives herself a second to stand before it, letting the setting sunlight blind her eyes and the breeze caress her face. It almost feels like a touch across her cheek.

“Josephine?” she calls, pushing down the handle to the dark door leading to the ambassador’s office. “Leliana is looking for you- oh, visitors. Excuse me-”

One of the men standing over Josephine’s desk is covered from head to toes, a dark cloak around thin shoulders and his head hidden underneath a hood. He is hunched over the various papers and talking to the ambassador with a low voice- tension is radiating from where his hands have clutched the rim of her desk, bony fingers white from his tight grip.

It feels fishy and she discreetly moves one hand to the dagger at her waist. The man standing next to him, clothed in similar travelling clothes and with white hair caught into a tight ponytail, turns sharply the moment her voice rings across the room.

Anna takes it all in at once, in a moment- the green of his wide eyes, the arch of his nose. The red ribbon keeping his hair in place. The glint of sharp teeth when he opens his mouth.

“Fenris?” she manages before going airborne, strong arms closing around her waist and burning hot lips crashing onto her own and he breathes his next word right into their kiss.

“Anna!” he growls. “Anna, Anna, Anna!”

Her own hands find his back instinctively, nails digging in and holding on to him desperately- the kiss is long and fiery, an explosion of colors and rapid hearbeats and for a glorious moment, she forgets everything that isn’t him. It leaves her heaving for air when he finally puts some space between their faces, both of them breathing hard into each other’s arms.

“You’re here.” Fenris whispers feverently, one hand reaching up to smooth her hair, guiding her head to rest against his neck. “You’re here, you’re safe.”

The rogue nods, her throat blocked for a moment. She can smell the road on him, the dust and the horse hair and underneath all that, his aroma that reminds her of nights under the sheets and warm arms around her back. Her eyes burn and she pushes against his chest a bit- she wants to see his eyes again, his face, him.

“How?” she croaks once words finally seem to return as an option of response. “What are you doing here?”

Fenris’ expression clouds to her question and his eyebrows lower menacingly over his eyes, a hint of anger finding its way to his now tightly pursed lips, to the sharp line of his jaw. His hand finds the side of her neck and squeezes firmly.

“What was I doing away from here is the right question. We heard the rumours, Anna. I thought you were dead!”

“I’m not dead.” she shakes her head. “I’m not…”

We?

“Anna?”

She freezes. It is the voice she dreaded to hear. Not here, not yet. She is not ready for this.

She looks behind Fenris, where the cloaked stranger has let his hood fall back over his shoulders. Golden hair shine under the last sun rays and she spots the red scarf around his neck.

“Where is Garrett?” asks Anders.

@forthelifeofoneburglar, @notyourinquisitormate, it’s been a while so here it is again. I’m almost done with the second part so I thought I should remind you you should reread it before the next assault of angst.

#look I wrote a thing #hawke #garrett #garrett hawke #anna #anna hawke #reyna #reyna hawke #anders #fenris #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da #da:i #put a read more cause it's huge #tell me what you think #long post

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