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monsterthalia · 2 years ago

Note

‘long ago, how madly i loved you.’ for any characters you like ✨

Heyyyy I'm back in the @dadrunkwriting game with some Cullen/F!Trevelyan, wooo Rating: T Pairing: Cullen/F!Trevelyan Words: 2109 Everything was going to shit.

Back in the War Room, when Evelyn had insisted that they go and investigate Alexius rather than meet with the Templars, she’d said lightly, “What could possibly go wrong?” She’d done it just to wind Cullen up – and sure enough, that little wrinkle appeared in his scrunched nose as he glared, and that was worth it alone – but now she was sure that the Maker had been watching, and was having a great laugh at her expense.

‘What could possibly go wrong’, she had discovered, included ‘You could be sent forward in time by a Tevinter supremacist cultist and find out the world ends in less than a year’. OK, lesson learned.

She’d already found Iron Bull and Sera, or rather what they had become. The sight of them with red lyrium in their eyes, the sound of the unnatural timbre of their voices, had put her into a strange kind of denial. This was horrific, yes - a nightmare, unquestionably - but of course she and Dorian were going to travel back to their own time and ensure this never came to pass, so it would all be fine, so it wasn’t really real. She’d chosen Iron Bull and Sera as the biggest ‘fuck you’ to Tevinter she could muster out of her new band of friends - how could something like this come out of something so stupid?

She was going to make it back and change things because the idea of this being real, being the future, was literally unthinkable. Her thoughts would not even humour the idea for an instant. So she kept her eyes forward, proceeded through the castle methodically, and ignored the howling nightmares hammering at the numb barrier around her heart.

Fiona had said Leliana was here, but she hadn’t named anyone else. As they crept through the passages, she couldn’t stop her racing mind imagining the fates of the others. Cassandra would have held the line at Haven as long as she could, of course, and Blackwall and Varric as well, but she hoped they’d retreated when it was clear the battle was lost. Vivienne and Solas might have fled, having their own motives rather than being driven by any particular devotion, but Cullen would have stayed to defend the Inquisition to the death, she knew, and her heart clenched painfully at the thought. He’d never abandon his troops.

Unbidden, the image of his body floated into her mind – lying in rubble in the burned out chantry, snow blowing in flurries to cover the blood leaking from so many wounds, still face vanishing beneath the white.

She tried to dismiss it, to see only the stone of the castle corridors, but it lingered like a spirit, hovering before her eyes both open and shut. It seemed more real than everything around her. If you fail then he’ll die. If you fail then he’ll die. If you-

She saw him so clearly that when she turned a corner and found him in front of her, it was as though she’d summoned him herself. Her heart leaped, and her name rose to his lips on a rush of relief just to see him alive, her Cullen, and she called out, “Cullen!” in that instant it took her head to catch up with her heart and observe two things.

One, that she was alone - the others had fallen behind, letting her scout ahead.

Two, that this was not her Cullen.

This Cullen was taller, broader, encased in shining plate emblazoned with a red sword, and his eyes - surprised, but rapidly narrowing at the sight of her - were shot through with the red as well.

“Shit,” she breathed, trying to raise her staff-

The scent of ozone hit her nose a split second before the Smite, and she bent double, as all the wind was knocked out of her along with her magic. Get up get up get up she yelled in her head as she wheezed, struggling to rise - but before she could force her abdominal muscles to obey, a gauntleted hand grabbed the front of her tunic and hauled her upright instead - hauled her all the way up, until her toes barely brushed the floor, her leathers cut painfully under her arms as she instinctively dropped her staff, grabbing for the fist that now held her like a tiny prey animal in its grip.

Cullen was staring at her with - something she couldn’t quite identify. Surprise, yes. Amusement, also. But other emotions flitted through his eyes in seconds - wonder, doubt, anger, fear, confusion - and all he said was, “Evelyn?”

She was surprised enough to stop fighting. He’d never called her by her first name - always ‘the Herald’ or, even more charmingly, ‘the Prisoner’ before that. She wasn’t entirely convinced he even knew it. But at her reaction, a smile spread across his face.

“The Herald of Andraste,” he said slowly, enjoying every word, “Back from the dead? And to think you were such a reluctant saviour.”

She rapidly assessed the situation. Red - he was taking red lyrium. He was with the Red Templars. By choice or not, he was there. Maybe he’d felt he had no other choice. Maybe he’d jumped at the chance. The old Evelyn, the one who’d attended Conclave as quiet eyes for Fiona, would have believed it - once a Templar, always a Templar - but the Evelyn who he had in his grip here today, who had shared words with him by the frozen lake, laughing awkwardly talking about Chantry vows - could only believe the red lyrium had been poured down his throat as he fought every step of the way.

“Listen to me, Cullen,” she said in a low voice, rapidly, “You need to let me go. I can still go back and stop this from happening.”

His brows furrowed, and that wrinkle appeared on his nose again. Oh Maker, this was her Cullen. Even as his smile widened and she saw too many of his teeth.

“Stop it?” His grip on her tunic tightened and she coughed, reflexively, the fabric pinching like a vice around her throat, cutting off her air. “Why would I want you to do that?”

“This isn’t you,” she said firmly, not looking away, “Not the Cullen I knew. This is-”

“No,” he growled, and the smile vanished. “This is better.”

“Cullen, I-” She was cut off as he shoved her back into the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs all over again.

He stepped with the push, stepped right into her, looking down at her, face in shadow from the light behind his head. “Did you know,” he murmured, and she had to crane up to look at him, “that I was in love with you?”

She froze. Her heart ceased its panicked flutterings and went very, very still. His hand clenched around her shirt loosened, relaxed, but remained, pressed lightly to her collarbone. To her heart. It was a gentleness at complete odds from the rest of his posture, tensed with barely restrained power like a ballista ready to fire.

“From the first moment. At first sight.” Even amidst the horror, a slight tone of wonder entered his voice. “Like a child. I didn’t even think I could do that any more. It seemed to me like-” A bitter laugh escaped him, and he was so close, she felt the rush of the breath over her own lips. “Like another miracle worthy of Andraste herself.”

Her voice was dead in her throat, her head empty.

“I was a hopeless, blind fool, a dog beaten too many times and still begging for anyone to hold the leash,” he went on, words falling from his lips like bitter poison, “The Chantry, the Circles, the Inquisition - desperate to follow, desperate to serve, desperate to not be alone. And you-” He chuckled quietly, dangerously. “That suited you just fine, didn’t it? You hated me, but I was still the only Commander you were going to get for your ragtag little band-”

“I didn’t hate you.” The words rushed out of her, an automatic protest, but he froze at them. Stared at her.

Rage clouded his features, and he bared his teeth as he stepped closer, hissing, “Don’t lie to me-”

“I was stupid about you.” Her heart was hammering again, and the words spilled out of her, almost babbling in the hope of saving her skin just by admitting - “I couldn’t think straight around you. I teased you because I didn’t know what else to say. I hounded you because I couldn’t stay away. I challenged you because I knew it was safe, that you’d never hurt me. And -” she swallowed, as he kept staring down at her like he was just seeing her for the first time, “- all this was just hours ago for me. So… I still do. Know that.” She took, released a shaky breath. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” He said nothing. “The version of you I could have come to love as well, anyway.”

Her voice trailed off into a whisper, and they stood in silence, staring into each other’s eyes. She could see the glowing red lacing the little blood vessels, but his natural eye colour still burned through.

“Evelyn?” They both heard Dorian call in the distance. “Herald!” Coming closer. Maybe a minute away.

Cullen was still resting his hand against her chest. She thought he could probably feel her heart thumping away beneath it. “I should take you to Alexius,” he said slowly.

She dared push away from the wall, step closer into him, put her own hand over his own. “If I’m really doomed, I’ll end up there soon enough anyway,” she said softly. “But if you want a chance - a chance for this to happen all over again, and happen right this time… You just need to let me go.”

She was close enough that she could hear the red lyrium song at the edges of her hearing. It was like someone calling her name from a long way off, the way it snagged her attention, pulled it like a fishhook. The way it surrounded Cullen, emanated from him, made her step closer to him again without thinking. The song crept louder into her ears, curled into her brain -

He suddenly stepped back from her, releasing her hand. “Go back the way you came,” he ordered, “This corridor just leads to guard barracks. Go back to the central landing and take the left staircase up. I’ll go and stall them as long as I can.”

It took a second to snap back to herself, to realise he was letting her go. She shook her head, once, clearing it, and began, “You could-”

“Go back with you?” He shook his head. “If this future dies, let me go with it. Let my old sorry bastard self have his second chance. Or however many chances he’s on now…”

“Evelyn!” she heard Dorian call, closer now, but she just looked at Cullen, looked over every inch of him, fearfully committing him to memory before he was taken from her.

“Do me a favour, though,” this Cullen added to her quietly as an afterthought. “When you get back - tell me how you feel. Because I - he - will never figure it out on his own.”

Evelyn nodded. “I will. The second we get a quiet moment - I will.”

Cullen gave a laugh at that. “Not sure when you’ll get one of those, but sure.”

“Evelyn!” Dorian must be just round the corner. They were out of time.

She rapidly stepped in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She stepped away and met his eyes again, which were soft with wonder.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded. “Go.”

He turned and headed back the way he had come, even as she picked up her staff and turned to meet Dorian rapidly hurrying down the corridor towards her. His face was a knot of concern which immediately gave way to exasperation when he spotted her.

“There you are! Wandering off, I thought I was accompanying the Herald of Andraste, not a mischievous child-”

“I can be both,” she said, and started jogging back the way they’d come. “Come on, this path doesn’t lead anywhere good, we need to go back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying all-”

“Ha ha ha. Oh, and I owe you five silver.”

“Really? Wait, for which bet - the Solas one, the Iron Bull one, the Cullen one-”

“You’ll see.” Amidst all the denial and horror blanketed in numbness, she felt the stirring of something new. A fresh flicker of flame. Of hope. “When we get back.”

#dadrunkwriting #dragon age

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highwayphantoms · 2 years ago

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DADWC :3 “Just close your eyes. I will still be here when you open them again.”

thank you for the prompt! :D as @inquisimer requested, I wrote a little bit about Oriana <3

for @dadrunkwriting!

Words: 993 Characters: Oriana Lavellan, Cyren Lavellan Warnings: some brief but dark flashbacks

They leave Redcliffe Castle in a hurry after the queen arrives to evict the mages—and, presumably, the Tevene interlopers that the Inquisiton had already dealt with. With the bulk of the remaining rebel mages in tow, they stop for the night at the edge of the Hinterlands, well away from Redcliffe. Equal partners, she had said. The Seeker was still seething—not that Oriana was surprised—but she’d coordinated the camps without complaint all the same, granting Oriana the time and space to get away. She didn’t mind sharing a camp with mages—how could she, when her own mother was a mage? Nor did she mind sharing a fire with members of the Inquisition. Varric was a delight to have by the fireside after a long day, always ready with some tall tale about Hawke. (Oriana didn’t know much about the Champion of Kirkwall, but Clan Lavellan often traded with humans and she’d heard a few stories. None of them line up with the stories Varric tells.) She still watched the Seeker with a wary eye, but in truth Cassandra had been… shockingly welcoming aside from that first day.

Ordinarily, she would have stayed and pitched her tent alongside the others.

Instead, she takes her things and sets up away from everyone else. Not so far that she won’t hear someone trying to find her, but far enough that no one will hear her.

As she expected, Cyren joins her soon enough. Though he had remained outside the village while she confronted Alexius and then proceeded to mingle with the rebel mages in the aftermath, she’d known he would come to check on her sooner or later. She’d brushed off the others with ease—she hasn’t given any of them enough time and opportunity to learn her tells, and she does not intend to give them a chance. If any of them could tell that images of the false future she and Dorian had seen were still playing in her mind, rippling out like a drop in a pond, they had said nothing.

Cyren, however, takes one look at the way she silently, methodically fletches new arrows and steps close enough to pluck them from her hands. “Ori,” he says, low and even.

Suddenly bereft of distractions, she looks up to glower at him. “I’m fine,” she counters. “Give those back.”

He hums in response, an utterly unconvinced sound, and sets both her tools and her arrows-in-progress aside, just out of her reach.

Cyren carefully joins her where she sits on a low outcropping of rock, then leans his staff aside the rock ledge and turns to her. “I know that look,” he says, quiet even though there is no one close enough to overhear. “What happened in the castle?”

In lieu of answering, Oriana folds her hands in her lap and silently studies the grass below her feet. Spring has yet to reach Haven, up at the foot of the mountains, but here in the Hinterlands the grass has turned green once more and the trees have begun to produce new leaves. Life, beginning anew—but then, it wasn’t dead. Only dormant. The world she’d seen—a world in which the Inquisition failed—was dead.

Nothing and no one can raise the dead. A spirit might possess a dead body, but even an undead corpse is still dead. Nothing can change that.

“He was using the Breach to manipulate time,” she says at last. “I—we—were flung into a future where I vanished. The Inquisition was destroyed, but…” Dark cells in the bowels of the castle, some flooded with water from the lake, others consumed with red lyrium. The Seeker, Varric, Solas—all of them taken prisoner, all of them visibly unwell. Dying. The Nightingale, Leliana, reduced to a vengeful husk of a woman.

Cyren, dead. Barely more than bones and rotting flesh, recognizable only by the dull silvery glint of the connected rings he wears on his right hand.

He was looking for you. They ran him through with a blade and left him to rot.

An involuntary shudder runs through her.

A gentle hand on her arm jolts her out of her thoughts. “That won’t happen,” Cyren says firmly. “You’re still here. You haven��t disappeared.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she replies, barely above a whisper.

“In this alternate future, I was dead,” he guesses, then sighs. “Would it be better if I left?”

“No.” She turns in an instant, grasping his wrist like he might walk away at any moment. He won’t, she knows that, but… “Don’t go,” she pleads. “I can’t do this alone.”

When she looks at him, Cyren quirks a small, wry smile at her. “You look exhausted,” he says, gingerly rising to his feet. Tugging her up with him, he adds, “Come on.”

Reluctantly, she follows—pausing only long enough to snatch up her tools and arrows, both finished and not. The sun is only beginning to set, but he’s not wrong. It feels like an eternity has passed since the last time she slept—and maybe it has. She won’t pretend to understand how Alexius was manipulating time, but that false future had felt so real.

No, it was real. Her muscles are tired and sore from drawing her bow over and over in that cursed future—and if that’s real, the rest must be, too.

As she spreads out her bedroll, Cyren does the same with his. Side by side, like they’ve done so many times over so many years. Then, after she sheds her boots and armor and sets them aside, she tries to settle. And fails.

Gently, Cyren says, “Just close your eyes. I’ll still be here when you open them again. I promise.”

They’re only words, but all the same, she drifts off into a dreamless sleep before she knows it.

When she wakes before daybreak, he’s still fast asleep beside her.

#jay writes #dadwc #dragon age #dragon age fic #da fic #oriana lavellan #cyren lavellan

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enasallavellan · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 89

Hey all! I’m finally back!

After this, I’m hoping to do some sort of uploading schedule, but I’m also trying hard not to overwhelm myself as I tend to do.��

So, after months, back to the story at hand!

“Solas?”

Her teacher offered a weary smile. “You’re supposed to be concentrating.”

“I am.” She insisted, “Well… I’m trying.”

“Something on your mind, ma da’len?”

“So, you’re older than me but you’re not… old?”

Solas chuckled, “A fitting observation.”

“So… I’ve been trying to figure out...” She leaned forward, squinting at him, “Are you bald or do you shave your head?"

“Enasal!” He laughed.

“I’m serious!” Enasal argued, “You seem young to be bald, but if you shave it I have never seen any stubble!”

He shrugged, "Perhaps I do. I've heard tales of ancient elves doing so after the fall of Arlathvhen in honor of their fallen brethren."

"So you do?"

"But, undue stress or even familial history might cause one to lose their hair earlier than what is considered normal."

She frowned, "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

He smiled, "It was a rather impertinent question, ma' da'len."

"I'm not being imper...tin… that! I just want to know!

"You're nosy."

"No, I'm curious."

He leaned back, trying in vain to hide a smile, "Ma asha'lan, you and I see the distinction between nosy and curious very differently."

“Lady Inquisitor!”

Out of breath and wide-eyed, one of the guards burst into the rotunda, jerking the two out of their conversation.

“Seeker Pentaghast and Master Tethras-”

A frantic guard gasping out those two names in the same breath? That didn’t bode well.

Out of the rotunda and through the main doors, both guard and Inquisitor fallout out their apologies as they wove in and out of clusters of people. He waved her into the forge, and she was barely through the doorway when the shouting reached her ears.

“You knew where she was all along!” Cassandra was shouting, “You knew!”

“You’re damned right I did!” Varric's voice was aggressive and angry, no longer the calm and collective sound she was used to.

“You conniving little shit!”

Enasal swung around the final banister and stumbled to a stop as Cassandra swung at Varric. He ducked under the punch and dashed behind a table, ready to dodge at any moment, “You kidnapped me!” He shouted, “You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

Enasal leapt over a table and threw her arms wide in front of Varric, “Stop!”

Cassandra scowled, “Of course, you would take his side!”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side!” Enasal’s voice quivered, “I’m just making sure you don’t kill him!”

Behind her, Varric fell into one of the chairs.

Cassandra landed her fist onto the banister, grunting in frustration and stalking around the area. “We needed someone to lead the Inquisition.” She said, “First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished.” Her pacing had stopped and she leaned over the banister. “Then, we looked for Hawke. But she too, was gone. We thought it all connected… but no.”

Her hands balled into fists and she looked at Varric, “It was just you. You kept her from us!”

Legs shaking, Enasal sidestepped in time with Cassandra to block her path. She jumped at the hand on her back. Varric stood by her side, “The Inquisition has a leader - and a damn good one.”

Cassandra took a step closer and Enasal mimicked the gesture. “Hawke would have been at the Conclave! If anyone could have saved Most Holy-” Her voice cracked and she ran shaking fingers through her hair.

“Varric’s not responsible for that!” Enasal managed to sputter.

Varric grip switched, moving across the front of her shoulders and easing her back, “I was protecting my friend, Seeker.”

Cassandra was determined to be face to face with Enasal, to speak to the leader of the order she had begun without any interference, “Enasal, Varric is a liar, a snake.”

Enasal visibly stiffened. Her brow furrowed and her jaw set.

“He.” She hissed, “Is. Not.”

Cassandra ignored her, “Even after the Conclave! Hawke could have brought order, she could have unified the people!” Her eyes cut to Varric, “Yet still, Varric kept her a secret.”

Enasal held her hands up, “She’s with us now, Cassandra!”

Varric nodded, “We’re all on the same side, Seeker.”

Cassandra lunged forward, practically nose to nose with the dwarf, “We all know whose side you’re on. It will never be the Inquisition’s.”

“Attacking Varric,” Enasal said through clenched teeth, “Won’t change what happened to the Divine.”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed. With a shuddering breath she turned away, going to a table in the corner and slumping into a chair. “You’re right. I must not think of what could have been. We have so much at stake, but with Hawke…” She put her head into her hands, “Go Varric. Just go.”

“Gladly.” He patted Enasal’s shoulder and muttered, “Don’t let her bully you.” Before he started down the stairs, he turned his eyes to Cassandra, “You know what I think? If Hawke had been at the temple, she’d be dead too. You people have done enough to her, just let the woman be.”

Enasal eased into the chair near Cassandra. She opted to keep her feet on the floor and just sat on the edge of her seat - she wasn’t sure if she’d end up on the receiving end of Cassandra’s temper.

“I…believed him.” Cassandra’s voice was shaky, heavy. She tapped on the table with her knuckles and shook her head, “He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it.” The taps turned into a solid slam as she stood, “If I’d just made him understand. But I didn't, did I? If I had just explained why we needed Hawke, how desperate the situation was…” She leaned against the wall.

“Even if you had found her, Glory isn’t exactly-” She snapped her mouth closed..

“I know you met with her, Enasal,” Cassandra shook her head, “Varric let it slip.”

Enasal shook her head, “We didn’t have any intention of hiding that from you once we told you.”

“It’s fine.” Cassandra sighed, “Honestly, I doubt she would have agreed to become Inquisitor. She was a vocal supporter of the mage rebellion… she wouldn’t have trusted me for a moment.” With another sigh, she sat down across from Enasal again. “But this isn’t about Hawke or even Varric… not truly.” She shook her head, “I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter.” She cradled her head in her hands, “I don’t deserve to be here.”

Enasal chewed on her lip and fiddled with her fingers, “Cassandra…the Inquisition is full of mistakes and accidents.” She risked a smile, “We’re nearly a circus at this point.”

A laugh.

A choked, tearful laugh broke though as Cassandra turned her head away, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Maybe, more like a part of the family?”

Cassandra turned back, looking her up and down. At her stubbornly planted feet and the slight quiver of her hand - how her forced smile trembled at the corner.

“So it is true.” She said, lowering her head, “What they say. You are still afraid of me, after all this time.”

Enasal’s next attempt at a smile showed much more teeth than she intended, looking more like she was baring her teeth at her, “You are a lot bigger than me!”

“And yet, you do not so much as tense around The Iron Bull.” She shook her head, “I want you to know, Enasal. I have no regrets. Had we found Hawke or Queen Consort Alice, then the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you… but he did.” She heaved a heavy sigh, “You’re… not what I pictured. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know less than nothing.”

Cassandra put her head down on the table, falling silent.

Enasal eased out of her chair, patting Cassandra on her back as she passed, “Cassandra… if you want to talk later, I’d like that - but I’ll give you some space now.”

Whether or not Cassandra’s wave was one of dismissal or acceptance was up for debate, but Enasal couldn’t keep herself there any longer.

She had to check on Varric.

He wasn’t in his room or schmoozing the nobles in the main hall. He wasn't in the library switching books into the wrong shelves to irritate Dorian, so she started searching the area outside the forge..

Cole was busy by one of the windows, smearing chunks of fruit on the seals. His head snapped around when he saw her and he hid his sticky hands behind his back.

“Cole?” Enasal asked, “What are you doing?”

“You like spiders.”

“Yes?” She said hesitantly, “But what are you doing?”

“They get hungry.” His smile was wide.

Enasal sighed, “Cole, have you seen Varric? I can’t find him and I’m worry about-”

“Flushed with shame, did I do the right thing?” He rumbled, “Why does she trust me?”

“Cole.” Enasal tried to keep her voice stern, but without annoyance, “Where is he?”

Cole pointed to the tavern, his voice back to its sweet tenor, “He’s in our tavern. He wanted to drink.”

Enasal nodded, “Thank you, da’isha. Please be good, alright?”

He nodded, “I’m helping.”

She’d have to talk to him about that later.

Varric wasn’t at their usual table near the entrance. She scanned along the first floor but didn’t see him. Cook said she had seen him trudging upstairs, silent and unsmiling.

He was sitting at a table in the back corner of the tavern, Bianca sitting at his side. When he saw her he forced a smile - it was a shameful facsimile of the real thing.

Enasal sat down opposite him, “I think she’s calmed down, you can put Bianca away.”

Varric frowned, “Define ‘calmed down’. For me, in terms of who or what she’s punching right now.”

“She’s sitting at one of the tables in the forge.” Enasal said, “She admits that Hawke probably wouldn’t have agreed to become the Inquisitor, anyway.”

Varric snorted, “Damn right she wouldn’t.” He looked at her over his mug, “I wasn’t trying to keep secrets. I told her everything that seemed important at the time. They didn’t need Hawke as much as they thought.”

Enasal tilted her head back and forth as she spoke, “Cullen and I were talking last night. He said that you were right, that if you switched Hawke out for me that he would have been fine with it- encouraged it, actually.”

He chuckled, “Surprised you even remember anything - you were so drunk.”

She switched to the bench beside Varric, and took his free hand, “I think we all have our Hawke, Varric. I know why you did it and I don’t think badly of you - I’d do the same for you.”

Varric looked down into his mug for a few seconds before setting it down and seizing Enasal into a hug. “Coming from you… that means everything.” He let her go and ruffled her curls, “Just so you know, whatever you decide to do once this is all over, you’ve got a place in Kirkwall, got it?”

Enasal returned the hug and nodded, “Got it.”

If you enjoy Enasal and her shenanigans, feel free to click here to donate to my Ko-fi to help keep the lights on!

#enasal lavellan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisitor #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fic #dai #dai fanfic #dai fic #cassandra pentaghast #seeker cassandra #varric #varric tethras #Solas #Bald or shaved?#Enasal you need to focus

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daitranscripts · 4 years ago

Text

In Hushed Whispers Pt. 8

Finding the Throne Room

In Hushed Whispers Masterpost First: Negotiations Previous: Spymaster

The party takes off with Leliana in tow.

Dorian: What happened while we were away?

Leliana: Stop talking.

Dorian: I’m just asking for information.

Leliana: No. You’re talking to fill silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.

The party continues up some stairs.

Dorian: We need to find Alexius. I’m sure he’ll be in the nicer part of the castle. If there is one.

The party enters another room with demons and a rift and the PC closes. There are more blood circles and inscriptions scrawled throughout the room. There is a gate that the party travels though, and two familiar mages stand on the docks.

Linnea: The magister needs more power for his rituals.

Talwyn: No! Don’t hurt me Linnea. You know me!

Linnea: There is no other way to cure the Blight. [This line is in the game script but almost never triggers?]

Talwyn screams as Linnea attacks him.

Talwyn: Ahhh! Maker, no!

Linnea: There is no Maker. There is only Him. Come forth and serve the Elder One!

Both Linnea and Talwyn both become abominations as Linnea summons demons. The party defeats them.

Party comments:

Sera: More frigging demons.

Iron Bull: Why does everything they do with magic have to be so creepy?

Vivienne: The weak always resort to blood magic in time.

Dorian: This is madness. Alexius can’t have wanted this.

The party enters the courtyard and is confronted with the sky glowing green and huge masses suspended in the air.

PC: The Breach! It’s…

Dorian: Everywhere.

Party comments:

Vivienne: Enjoy the view, my dears. This is the Elder One’s power.

Cassandra: The Elder One and his Venatori. They are the ones who opened the Breach.

Solas: The veil is shattered. There is no boundary between the world and the Fade.

Varric: Used to be, it was only dwarves who were afraid of the sky. Now, it’s just good sense.

Sera: Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look— shit, I looked.

Blackwall: I’ve forgotten what the sky was like before.

Iron Bull: Shit. You can fit a lot of demons though that thing.

The party continues up the stairs and encounters a rift. The PC closes it and heads up to another rift that they defeat and close as well. Massive red lyrium spires tower through the area. The party then enters the Upper Royal Wing.

(If Connor was met in Redcliffe):

Connor: I am not a child! I can resist you!

Demon: I am you.

Connor: No!

Connor kills himself and the demon vanishes.

Dialogue options:

General: We could have helped. [1]

General: Connor, no! [2]

General: Those bastards! [3]

1 - General: We could have helped. PC: Why did he do that? We could have helped him. Dorian: We will help him by making sure this never happens. [4]

2 - General: Connor, no! PC: Connor! Dorian: It was an act of courage. He knew there was no other way to resist. [4]

3 - General: Those bastards! PC: How can those bastards want a world like this? Dorian: They want it to be just like the world of old Tevinter. Comforting, isn’t it? [4]

4 - Scene continues.

Party comments:

Solas: What a terrible waste.

Vivienne: He chose death before falling to a demon. Very brave.

Dorian: He resisted that demon to the last.

The party continues.

Dorian: What became of Felix? Do you know?

Leliana: Yes, I know.

Dorian: And you’re not going to tell me?

Leliana: You’ll find out soon enough.

The party travels into the lower Royal Wing and enters a room where Venatori are fighting demons that are coming out of a rift. The party defeats them all.

Party comments:

Varric: You’ve got to love what Alexius has done with the place.

Sera: Is that the way to the main hall? It didn’t look like that before.

Blackwall: The main hall is that way. I’m sure that’s where Alexius is hiding.

Iron Bull: The main hall. Alexius is close.

Vivienne: We’ve almost reached the main hall. Alexius is close.

Solas: The magister’s grown paranoid. He’s barricaded himself in there and will not come out.

Cassandra: This way to the main hall. Alexius will likely be there.

The PC picks up a red lyrium shard off a corpse.

Dorian: What in Andraste’s name is that? Hold onto it. I want to look at it later.

The PC approaches a massive door that is locked at the end of the room. The lyrium shard seems to fit into place.

Dorian: Maker’s breath! Where did Alexius find this? How did he even move it here?

PC: Can we open it?

Dorian: Perhaps, but it looks quite strong. How desperate and paranoid must he be? His servants must have a way through. He has to eat. Let’s look around.

The PC takes off to find more shards and heads back into the Upper Royal Wing.

Dorian: How much damage did Alexius’s spell do?

Leliana: Rifts tore apart all of southern Thedas, starting here. But whether that’s his doing or the Breach, who can say?

The party continues on and finds the guard’s dining hall. There are numerous Venatori, marksmen, and a spellbinder.

Party comments (if entering through the main door):

Cassandra (whispering): There might be a better way in.

Sera: A little close, don’t you think?

Dorian: They’re right there, perhaps we should find another way in.

Party comments (if entering through the back door):

Cassandra: They haven’t seen us. We could take them by surprise.

Sera: Want to climb up and shoot them in the arse from above?

Dorian: They haven’t noticed us yet. Good opportunity to look for higher ground?

Party comments (during combat):

Cassandra: Kill the enchanter!

Sera: Kill the book guy!

Dorian: Get that enchanter!

Party comments (after combat):

Cassandra: Andraste have mercy on your souls. No one else will.

Sera: Aren’t you cute, in your little pool of guts?

Dorian: Sorry for interrupting your dinner.

The party enters into a chapel. The statue of Andraste is corrupted with red lyrium.

Party comments (upon entering):

Varric: To busy praying to their god to watch the entrance? You just can’t find good cultists these days.

Blackwall: They’re distracted. Worshipping their Elder One. Let’s take them down before they see us.

Dorian: Are they praying? Let’s try to take them by surprise.

Party comments (during combat):

Varric: Keep them off the stairs!

Blackwall: Cover the stairs!

Dorian: Block the stairs!

Party comments (after combat):

Varric: The Venatori severance package stinks.

Blackwall: Where’s your Elder One now?

Dorian: Doesn’t look like the Elder One is interested in saving his followers.

The party continues on through the ruined castle and red lyrium growths.

PC: What happened here?

Party comments:

Varric: Venatori decorating at it’s finest.

Cassandra: Find Alexius. That’s all that matters.

Dorian: Somebody had very questionable tastes.

The party moves on into the castle library where there are, surprise, more Venatori.

Party comments (upon entering):

Iron Bull: We can get that Vint with the book if we sneak up on him.

Vivienne: If you’re swift and quiet, you can kill that enchanter before he sees us.

Dorian: Try to take out that enchanter quickly.

Party comments (during combat):

Iron Bull: Block the stairs!

Vivienne: Wall off the stairs!

Dorian: Block them from coming up the stairs!

Party comments (after combat):

Iron Bull: Anybody mind if I take some souvenirs? Maybe just a couple of those pronged helmets?

Vivienne: Well! Shall we move on, darling?

Dorian: I could really go for some light reading…

The PC collects the fifth and final lyrium shard. [Anyone else wondering how the hell the inky is just picking this stuff up?]

Dorian: Let’s head back to the main hall. I think I know how we’ll open that door.

Next: Alexius (Again)

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #dai transcripts #in hushed whispers #ihw #long post #this whole post was basically just party banter #oh well lol

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himluv · 4 years ago

Text

The Meadow, pt. 2

This one is long, and sad. But I love it. I hope you do too. Set directly after Dalish.

And remember, if you want to read from the beginning, I’ve collected these oneshots over at AO3.

The journey to Wycome was long and tense. It took nearly a week to reach the city by ship, and during that time Riallan spoke little. Solas was used to quiet, to traveling for weeks and barely hearing his own voice until he dreamt in some ruin. Even with Riallan they were prone to peaceful bouts of silence. It was comfortable, serene. Calm and soothing when worried minds would rather tie themselves in knots.

That was not the case on this journey. Riallan’s silence was a heavy thing, oppressive and all consuming. He only heard her voice when she spoke to the pair of diplomats Josephine had sent with them, and even then it was void of all the warmth and humor he’d come to expect.

In the dark of night, tucked in the small cabin they shared, Riallan slept with her face pressed to his chest. Some nights she cried, but the closer they drew to the Marches the more she withdrew and the less she wept.

He wasn’t certain it was an improvement.

Once in the city, Riallan’s silent grief transformed to a barely restrained fury. The four of them walked to the inn where Josephine had booked their rooms, Riallan marching ahead of them. She didn’t face him, but he recognized the disapproval that wracked her body at the sight of the lavish inn. The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet as they entered, and with each step he feared her rage would explode from her.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” said the concierge, a tall man with a bushy mustache and a thick brogue. “Welcome to Wycome. The Palisade is honored to serve you.”

She held the man’s gaze until he flushed and cleared his throat. “Lady Montilyet reserved two rooms,” he glanced at their party. “Is that correct?”

The diplomats nodded, but Riallan had other plans. “We only need one,” she said. Her tone begged the man to argue with her, begged the diplomats too. “Whichever is the nicer.” She glanced at the diplomats and added, “I will be sleeping elsewhere.”

“You worship--”

“Inquisitor--”

“I will meet you at the ship after three days,” she said to their companions.

She didn’t even glance at Solas as she walked by and out the door. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the choice to join her or if she simply assumed he would follow. Honestly, she might not have considered him at all, her perceptions were so clouded with fury and grief.

He followed her out into the cobblestone street and walked beside her without a word. When they left the city and followed the road into the forest, he knew where they would eventually end up.

The smell of smoke met them first. It was faint now, weeks old, but the flavor of ash still tinged the air and filled him with dread. It did not take much creativity for him to imagine the scene they would find in the meadow.

Her meadow.

What he hadn’t expected was an Inquisition agent waiting for them in the trees. The woman bent at the waist, her fist at her heart. “Inquisitor. Lady Nightingale sent me to secure the meadow.”

Riallan’s voice was lifeless. “Did you touch anything?”

“No, Your Worship.” She grimaced. “Only buried the remains as you requested. We were able to identify almost everyone thanks to your descriptions.”

Riallan swallowed and her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “And Deshanna?”

The agent looked at her feet. “The Keeper rests just outside the camp, with a view of the creek.” She cleared her throat. “The saplings arrived yesterday.” She glanced between Riallan and Solas. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You may leave us.”

She bowed again. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She cast a knowing glance at Solas, then she vanished into the woods. If the agent actually left them, he would eat his shirt. He had a feeling Leliana would not let the Inquisitor out of her sight for awhile.

Riallan made to continue on into the meadow, but she paused at the brush of his fingers on her arm. When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Vhenan…”

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice. “We have almost thirty trees to plant and only three days to do it.”

“Ria.” He tugged on her arm. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him, silent tears tracking her cheeks, but said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Too many things.”

“Drith ma, vhenan.”

She closed her eyes and let the words pour from her. “That I should have been here. That I could have helped. That I’ll never forgive myself for being gone so long. That I’ll never hear my maela’s voice again. That I’ll never get to introduce you to her. That I never wanted to share the meadow with you like this.”

She took a deep, terrified breath and whispered, “That none of this would have happened if I’d had the decency to just die in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Her words, her fears, all the horrible grief she carried in her heart brought a sting to his eyes. He blinked to keep the tears at bay; it would hardly help if he started crying too. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was glad she yet lived, that the world would be poorer for her loss, but he knew she wasn’t ready to hear them. In this moment she would gladly give her life if it meant it would bring her clan back.

There was nothing he could say that would change that. So, instead, he laced his fingers through hers and brought her trembling knuckles to his lips. “Come vhenan,” he said. “Let’s put your clan to rest.”

The days were long, the work of digging and planting trees a physical labor he hadn’t experienced in a long time. But he made no complaint, even as the heat threatened to suffocate him and the sun burned his skin. Across the meadow, Riallan had stripped down to her leggings and breast band, sweat glistening on her skin. She hadn’t cried since they entered the ruined camp. The sight of the charred and broken aravels, massacred halla scattered around them, had brought her to her knees, but once the shock wore off, anger and purpose fueled her.

She had too much work to do and now that indomitable focus he so admired served her well.

If the days were long, then the nights were eternity. Despite the back-breaking work, Riallan hardly slept. She kept vigil at the fire, her eyes distant as she succumbed to memories.

“It’s fitting,” she said on the third night. Firelight flickered on her face, casting her green eyes in shadow. She met his gaze for a fleeting moment, then looked out toward the creek. “My parents and sister are buried here.”

He had never heard her speak of any other family besides Deshanna. He’d assumed some sort of tragedy made her keep them to herself. His silence was invitation enough for her to continue.

“Mamae died in childbirth. Twins are hard even when one of the babies isn’t breached.”

“I did not know you were a twin,” he said, which was silly. Of course he didn’t, she’d never once mentioned it.

She nodded. “Maela said we were identical, and that the world simply wouldn’t have been able to handle the both of us.” She smiled at that, a sad and bitter thing. “Raena was stillborn. Mamae wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter what Deshanna tried.” She shrugged. “Papae never recovered. He went on a hunt and didn’t return. One of our hunters found him days later hanging from a tree.”

Solas watched her and felt true fear claw at his chest. The way she said it all, blithe and unconcerned. As if she’d said it a million times before, as if she felt not a single word that passed over her lips. There was a detachment to her he had never seen, as if her spirit would simply float away if it weren’t for the body rooting her to the earth.

Riallan stood suddenly and held her hand out to him. “Walk with me?”

He’d grown accustomed to her whiplash moods these past days. Her emotions were powerful and fleeting, making her a tempest of fury and grief one moment, and the still of a moonless night the next. The best he could do for her was to be the rock her tides crashed against, steady and unflinching in the brunt of her storm.

“Of course,” he said, and let her pull him to his feet. On their way to the bank of the creek, they passed the only grave that had yet to be graced with a tree. Riallan avoided Deshanna’s burial site, either because she wanted to honor her grandmother last or because she was dreading the ritual. Probably both.

When they reached the creek she settled down onto the bank and stretched out on her back. Solas followed her lead. The night was warm but the sea breeze was cool and refreshing, the sky above them clear and bright with stars.

He closed his eyes and focused on his other senses. The smell of the salt in the air doing its part to scour the ashy tang of death from the meadow. The ripple and babble of the creek as the cool, clear water tumbled over the stones that made its bed. The sway and hush of leaves in the trees promising a new sort of life after death.

It took him a moment to notice the change in Riallan’s breathing beside him. He’d slipped into a meditative state as he absorbed the meadow, but the hitch in her breath, the sharp, broken, shuddering sound as she struggled to control herself wrenched his eyes open.

“Vhenan?”

She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. When he reached for her she rolled away from him, curling in on herself as terrible sobs wracked her body. He followed her, curved his body around hers, and held her as grief tore her apart.

Riallan had cried a lot in the last week. Tears that came fast and hard, then dried just as quickly. Soft, trickling tears that hardly anyone noticed before she dabbed them away. Quaking, shaking tears that left little evidence on her face, but told the tale of her grief in the tremors of her body. All of those tears had been cried, and yet none of them bore the true weight of her loss.

There, on the bank of her favorite place in the world, Riallan’s grief was finally set free. She shuddered and sobbed, gasping for air and choking on tears until she was nearly sick. But Solas did not let go of her. He kept one arm around her middle, holding her back to his chest, while the other brushed the hair from her forehead in soothing strokes.

He did not shush her. He did not whisper comforting things or try to convince her that everything would be all right, no matter how much his heart ached for her. She had just lost her entire family, her people. Her clan. He would not diminish her grief with his selfish attempts to make her feel better.

He knew how she felt all too well. If he could take that pain from her, he would. But he could not. Like so much else in their lives, she would have to endure.

Solas held her until her tears subsided, until she rolled toward him and pressed her face into his chest. Until her breathing evened out and she abandoned the meadow for the solace of the Fade. Once he was certain she was asleep, he carried her back to their little tent and put her to bed. Then he settled in to guard her dreams.

In the morning Riallan insisted on planting Deshanna’s tree on her own. He gave her the privacy she desired, and busied himself with preparing their lunch. He watched over her, from a respectful distance, as she sank down onto her knees. The tree was planted. Riallan wiped at her face, but she didn’t shake, didn’t sob. The tears were quieter once more.

He smiled as she began to speak, her voice too low, the distance too far for him to hear, but the longer she sat there, the more animated her hands became. And then she bowed, put her hands to the dirt, and cried. No maelstrom, no heaving sobs. Just the soft, rocking rhythm of sorrow casting her adrift one more time.

When she joined him at the fire her face was splotched with red, but her eyes were clear. Steady hands took the bowl he offered and she gave him the first smile he’d seen since he found her under the tree in Skyhold’s garden.

“Thank you, Solas,” she said. She looked down at the stew. “For being here. For helping me.”

He dropped the ladle back in the pot, abandoning his own meal to stand before her. He ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to thank me, vhenan. I wanted to come.” He kissed her forehead and rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

She lifted her face and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. “Still,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have done this without you.”

“Ara melava son’ganem, vhenan.” He cupped her face in each hand and looked her in the eyes. “Ar lath ma, Riallan.”

Tears pooled in her green eyes, and though sadness still filled them, something bright and warm edged at the centers.

Solas thought it looked an awful lot like hope.

#Riallan Lavellan #Solas #Solavellan #Dragon Age #Dalish #cw: mental health #cw: grief #cw: death

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lord-woolsley · 4 years ago

Text

Stumbling Steps

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition (Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford) Chapters: 1/1 (3105 words) Rating: Teen And Up Summary: Surrounded by at least 12 nobles Cullen had felt quite uncomfortable since they had arrived at the Winter Palace but with the evening progressing and the alcohol flowing his “suitors“ had become bolder. Cullen is in distress, Dorian saves the day. Rant: If you like it, please leave some love on ao3. ♡ Ao3: Link

Stumbling Steps

“Smile, Commander, you’re so handsome when you smile.“ “He’s just as handsome when he doesn’t.“

Cullen asked himself if the Maker intended to punish him for something. Maybe for leaving the Order, standing against the Chantry‘s will by supporting the Inquisition or more likely for the disaster that had happened in Kirkwall. That must have been it. The Maker probably blamed him for not seeing through Meredith’s grand scheme earlier or maybe he had done something wrong during his time at the Circle Tower in Ferelden and couldn’t remember anymore. Most of it was a blur anyway.

He had been the Templar recruit who had fled from the Hero of Ferelden after all because she – he still blushed thinking about it - had flirted with him. This here is what happens to guys that run away instead of facing their problems, he thought to himself.

He sometimes should have shown more initiative, he was aware of that. Blindly following orders had been his weakness in the past, one he was happy he had overcome.

Cullen didn’t know for which of these shortcomings he was punished here exactly but he had obviously done something very very wrong to deserve this.

Surrounded by at least 12 nobles he had felt quite uncomfortable since they had arrived at the Winter Palace but with the evening progressing and the alcohol flowing his “suitors“ had become bolder. Cullen was pretty sure someone had squeezed his butt just now.

“Did you grab...my bottom?“, he asked, his face flushed red but his voice angry. “I couldn’t help myself.“, the lady exclaimed, she sounded like she thought she was entitled to do to him whatever she desired. Nobles. He wanted to retch.

The woman didn’t seem to notice it or she just didn’t care. Cullen frowned and feared it was the latter because she was already holding out a hand again, trying to touch the scar on his lip. Cullen used his Templar training and dodged. He was being attacked here after all, not with weapons but with something far worse.

“Are you married, Commander?“ “Not yet... but I‘m already taken.“ It was a blatant lie but he had hoped some of them would show at least some respect considering the prospect of him being in a relationship. "Still single, then.“ Or not.

Why would he even think these people cared about someone being taken, had they harassed him the whole evening without any consent from his side, the opposite even. He doubted even a ring on his finger could have stopped or avoided this.

Cullen wanted to escape the Ballroom, run away and leave Halamshiral for good, doing exactly what he had done to the Hero of Ferelden all those years ago. He wanted to be a coward again. Corypheus, the Breach and the assassination attempt on Celene’s life be damned.

“You must dance with me, Commander, you cannot stand about all evening.“ “I‘m afraid not, thank you.“

This was definitely the woman who had grabbed his butt a few second ago. He would rather dance with an archdemon in Haven’s ruins with Solas watching and commenting on his bad posture instead of staying here for one minute longer. But he had to be polite and couldn’t risk to snap, Josephine‘s disappointment would be unbearable if he endangered their plan just because some nobles couldn’t keep it in their pants. Their cause was greater than this and he was the Commander of the Inquisition after all, he wouldn’t bow to some royals behaving abysmal.

The worst disappointment of the evening so far had been that the Inquisitor had witnessed some of the harassing and didn’t do or say anything about it. She had seen mostly the flirting, Cullen supposed. He was pretty sure Herah would have stepped in if she had witnessed someone touching him without his consent. But she hadn’t seen the extent of their actions and probably thought he was the victim of some annoying courting and bickering. No harm in that.

She had given him an apologetic look - pitiful even - and suggested he should talk to Josephine about it or Leliana if he wanted one of them assassinated. Leliana‘s methods were unconventional at least but the thought of an arrow through that horrible woman’s face was lightening his mood. Or maybe Josie could spread a handful of filthy rumors and destroy some reputations.

If he only knew where Lady Montilyet or Leliana were lingering tonight or if these suitors would let him go to search for one of them.

They had zeroed in on him and he couldn’t find the smallest gap to slip through, he was literally glued to the spot. He was being held captive by - it was embarrassing - a flock of noble ladies and their petticoats and even some gentlemen who were at least a bit more discreet, probably because they didn’t want to ruin their reputations.

He was their prey, a piece of meat, and they were hungry wolves that hadn‘t been fed for months, so it seemed.

Cullen was gazing at Herah who would soon leave him here to die - he wished for the sweet release of death at this point - Sera now seemingly glued to her side, chuckling and grinning like an idiot. Nothing unusual about that.

Inquisitor Adaar was red-faced and he was pretty sure Sera had just said something really dirty to her. About an empty broom closet and peaches and breeches. It even rhymed awfully. That must have been Seras attempt at seduction if he wasn’t mistaken completely. Not that he, by any means, was better at creating romantic phrases or paying compliments if they weren’t about the weather. She was definitely more forward than he would ever be.

His thoughts must have jinxed it because in that exact moment Sera started to make loud smooching noises. Cullen wasn’t sure if she intended to mock him or if she wanted to encourage Inquisitor Adaar for whatever awaited her in that broom closet.

Both women left his side eventually, fleeing from strangers approaching them, mostly nobles that thought it would be advantageous to be seen with the Herald of Andraste. He could understand it to an extent. Herah had it hard enough already, most nobles at Halamshiral didn’t treat a Qunari kindly. She deserved to get away from all this for a while.

Cullen could only guess what Sera and Herah were up to after Sera’s remark. The thought made him blush. At least the Inquisitor was having fun while he was suffering. He would rather have all the side effects of his Lyrium withdrawal all at once instead of being touched by strangers without manners.

He longingly stared after them, seeing Sera’s blonde hair disappear in the crowd. He was on his own now.

Cullen wished he could pay an empty broom closet a visit as well until the event was over. Sweet solitude.

"Commander, that woman you‘re in a relationship with, does she really exist?“, another lady asked and he knew he would start to blush and stutter any second in search for an excuse or an inscrutable lie.

But for the first time this evening he was lucky. When he saw Dorian stumbling to the buffet, alone, unoccupied and an empty wine glass in hand he saw his chance.

“Dorian, sweetheart, I‘m here.“ He waved at the mage and really hoped Dorian was either drunk enough not to notice his weird behavior or quick enough to catch up on the situation Cullen was currently trapped in.

The Tevinter shot him a confused look but came closer nevertheless.

“Here he is, my date, the person I told you about, the man I’m in a relationship with.“, Cullen stuttered, pointing at Dorian who was clearly trying to make sense of the situation.

“Ah, my Commander, I thought I had lost you.“ Thank the Maker Dorian was playing along. He was undoubtedly a smart man.

“Cullen, you can’t be serious?“, one of the ladies screeched in his ear, a painful noise leaving it ringing for multiple seconds. Leliana‘s ravens could learn a lot from this woman‘s high-pitched exclamation.

“Isn’t this the evil Tevinter Magister everyone was gossiping about the whole night? I know he’s with the Inquisition but we were warned about him, everyone said he should be avoided at all costs. He‘s no suitable company for someone as handsome and heroic as you.“

Hearing the word Magister Dorian rolled his eyes but he didn’t comment on it. Cullen could feel him correcting the term to „Altus“ in his head, followed by "Southerners, can’t recognize the difference between a dog and a cat.“

“That is for me to decide.“, Cullen said. "I‘m glad, Commander, otherwise this relationship would be rather one-sided, wouldn’t it be?“ Dorian was offering Cullen his arm to desperately cling to which to his own shame Cullen did.

“Amatus, you promised me a dance. I couldn’t find you until now but I‘m here to take you up on it.“ “Of course, love.“ Cullen was clearing his throat and was trying to shoot Dorian what he thought was an affectionate gaze.

One of the ladies actually had the indecency to grasp after Dorian‘s arm and was trying to shove him away from Cullen.

“I really wouldn’t do this if I were you.“, the mage said, voice sharp. "There‘s a clear lack of blood magic tonight for my taste. You wouldn’t want to witness some, would you? A real taste of a Tevinter party. I could arrange that.“

Cullen was always surprised how eloquent Dorian was and how he always found a way out of the most horrible situations. Using his status as the evil Tevinter mage everyone was making him out to be was risky but it definitely seemed to work in this case.

The woman - and many others of his suitors - looked shocked and were hiding their disapproval with throwing their hands to their faces to cover their eyes. Like this childish gesture could make Dorian vanish and disappear from the spot if they pressed their eyes shut hard enough.

“Scandalous.“, two were whispering to each other. “What a waste. A man like the Commander..., I didn’t know he shared certain quirks with the empress.“ “I wouldn’t let her hear you.“, Dorian said. "Or should I tell her myself?“ "She wouldn’t believe you, you‘re from Tevinter." "You really wanna try me? I can be pretty persuasive.", Dorian asked, his words a warning.

The lady was silent for a moment before she bowed her head, slowly shaking it.

“Of course not, I apologize.“, the woman said, clearly not meaning it. She was faking a smile which distorted her face into an ugly grimace behind her mask.

“As if these quirks are the only problem here, the evil Magister has clearly enchanted him.“, one of the gentleman said.

“With my charms and wits maybe. Or my handsome face.“, Dorian said smugly. “All assets you people are visibly lacking. And now if you would be so kind to excuse us, the Commander owes me a dance.“ “That I do.“ Cullen would grant Dorian all the dances in the world for saving him.

With their arms locked they left the Ballroom in search of a quiet spot for Cullen to recover. They were in luck, one of the balconies was empty and even had some free benches to rest on.

“What just happened?“, Dorian asked. „Apart from the obvious, of course.“ “I apologize for using you as my escape plan, Dorian, I am deeply sorry.“ “No, no, it‘s fine. Their behavior, horrible that. Reminds me of home. I wouldn’t even wish this on my father or the Venatori. Maybe on Corypheus though. He wouldn’t be able to destroy the world. Those ladies would never let him go. They would tear him to pieces with their prying gazes. Oh, Corypheus, you owe me a dance." Dorian was spinning his empty wine glass in his hand while speaking.

"Oh, I didn’t even let you get a new drink.“, Cullen said, trying to apologize. Again. ”That was obviously why you came inside, wasn’t it? And now you left empty-handed." "I wouldn’t exactly call this empty-handed. I‘ve got quite a handful." Dorian gestured to their linked arms, an amused grin spreading on his lips.

"Well, I had enough to drink for the evening anyway. I’m feeling a bit tipsy already.“, Dorian started "But let’s not change the subject over something so unimportant as an empty glass of wine - as good as the Orlesian stuff might be. I‘m just gonna get the whole bottle later." Dorian placed his empty glass on one of the benches.

"So, Commander, do tell. Why me? Wasn’t there someone else the Commander of the Inquisition could have faked an romantic involvement with? I‘m pretty sure the Lady Seeker was around somewhere." "... Nevermind, when I think about it now, she would have probably chopped your head off for the idea alone. I was the safer bet, no head chopping here. Even though: you’re aware this is enough for a scandal? You won’t be able to save yourself from the rumors. The evil Tevinter Magister", Dorian mentioned the wrong title with his typical annoyance "... and a man on top of that. We will be the talk of the evening, not even an assassination attempt can change that. In my experience Orlesians are that close-minded."

Cullen hadn’t thought of that, clearly. He had just wanted to get away from these people as far and as quick as possible, not taking the consequences into consideration. He needed to make this right at some point but this wasn’t the time for it neither could he do something about it while being trapped in the Winter Palace. This was Josephine’s strength, not his.

Cullen felt guilty for making Dorian an even bigger victim of Orlesian gossip even though he himself didn’t care too much about their insults if they only kept their physical distance. But maybe Dorian felt different about this.

“I‘m not ashamed of being seen with you, Dorian.“ Cullen said after a long moment of silence. He actually meant it.

“Oh, Commander, you do surprise me.“, Dorian said, faint smile spreading on his face. “It‘s nice having some company after all. You could think I smell of cabbages with everyone trying to stay as far away from me as possible. I was already at my seventh glass of wine when you saw me heading inside. I needed to keep myself entertained somehow. I was feeling rather lonely and a bit drunk now as well to be fair.“ “I‘m still glad you‘re here, Dorian. Can I make it up to you somehow? As a little thank you for saving me. Maybe even with the dance I promised to you earlier. I have to warn you though I‘m a terrible dancer. But one who keeps his word.“ “Are you sure? Dancing with the evil Magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais. How shocking.“ “They‘ll live.“, Cullen said.

He was surprised by his own confidence regarding the gossip. But that was the point, wasn’t it? It was nothing like idle hearsay after all and it wouldn’t bear any real problem for any of them. Especially not if they would manage to save the empress at the end of night. Orlais would be in debt to the Inquisition and only positive word of their members would spread.

“You say that now. If you can find me ten silk scarves, I‘ve got a dance that will really shock them.“ “I-", Cullen started “don’t know what to say to that. I just hope you‘re a better dancer than I am. In dances that don’t involve silk scarves that is.“

A red color was spreading from his cheeks to his throat while he was trying to get that picture of Dorian doing some erotic Tevinter dance out of his head. Without much success, he had to admit. Who would even say a thing like that? Dorian Pavus obviously.

"Oh, I am indeed.“, Dorian said, he didn’t seem to notice how flustered the Commander was at his words. Which was great, Cullen thought. It left him with the last pieces of his dignity still intact.

"Picture me a boy of 15, being forced by his mother to dance with every suitable lady in the room. You learn some things even if you don’t want to. But you see, it‘s of use now. Mother certainly wouldn’t approve of it now, as you can imagine. But enough talk. Let‘s dance.“

Dorian was bowing and offering his hand to Cullen. Every lady would have been envious of the perfection and grace with which Dorian executed that gesture. If it wouldn’t have been the evil Tevinter asking for a dance of course and some noble gentleman instead.

Cullen was certainly blushing because of Dorian’s performance but he took the mages hand in his own anyway and was instantly pulled into Dorian‘s grip whose fingers were placed on Cullen’s waist immediately.

“Is this okay for you, Commander? If this is too much physical contact after what you‘ve just been through, I understand. We can postpone our little dance or leave it be if that‘s more to your liking.“ “I’m good. You decide, Dorian.“

The mage shook his head and made some “Tsk, tsk.“ noises but started with slow and practiced steps even Cullen could follow.

“Thank Godness one of us has a little initiative.“, Dorian chuckled.

Cullen didn’t know if the nobility was actually watching them from inside the Ballroom but he didn’t lie, he couldn’t care less about it. He owed Dorian that dance and it was most definitely more pleasant than being trapped by harassing strangers, noble or not. He actually quite enjoyed himself after the horror of the last hours. A moment of peace with someone he liked.

“After our beautiful dance I’m actually quite sad you‘re not interested in men at all. A shame, that.“ “Yes, a shame.“, Cullen agreed without even thinking about it.

•

Suddenly one of the bushes next to the railing of the balcony Dorian and Cullen were dancing on started to chuckle and when both men followed the noise with their gazes to uncover its origin, they looked straight into the amused faces of Sera and the Inquisitor. Both women were trying to hide behind its leafs while failing miserably. Sera‘s laughter wasn’t exactly subtle either.

“So much for an empty broom closet.“, Cullen stated. Sera was grinning at him. “No, this is so much better." The Inquisitor nodded. “And here I was thinking our dear Commander would be the knight in shining armor tonight. How wrong I was."

#Cullrian #fanfiction #Dorian Pavus x Cullen Rutherford #Dorian Pavus #Cullen Rutherford #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age #da #dragon age fanfiction #writing #my writing #my stuff #ao3 #oneshot

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heartslogos · 4 years ago

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newfragile yellows [894]

“It doesn't make sense. If the Anchor isn’t with Corypheus and if it isn’t with Solas — if we believe his story — then where did it go?” Josephine asks, frustration and confusion in every word as she angrily scratches black lines into her notes for lack of something better to do with her energy.

“The Anchor could be gone forever,” Cullen suggests. “It’s unproven magic. There’s no reason why it couldn’t have just — vanished. Dispersed.”

Bull blocks out the rest of the noise as the mages in the room argue otherwise.

De Fer somewhat condescendingly and Pavus mostly exasperated and tired. Solas isn’t here because Solas is apparently some kind of Dalish would-have-been-god and functionally immortal. If Bull was still able to contact the Qun and still willing to do so he’s sure that reporting that information back would either cause the Qun to to think he’s really lost it for good and isn’t worth the paper he’s written on, or they’d launch a full attack on the South to salt the earth for good. Too much bad shit comes from down here when it comes to magic surprises.

Bull’s pretty sure that at this point Tevinter doesn’t even have anything on this area when it comes to amount of threat. How could they when the South is spitting out demons, rips into the Fade, blighted Magisters, and now immortal elves who claim to have been gods?

Around him people are arguing back and forth with different theories, plans of action, statements of disbelief and anxious protests against what’s been presented as the truth.

But Bull is looking straight at Leliana.

And she’s looking right back at him.

It’s a contest of —

Not wills. It’s not a contest of wills because Bull isn’t trying to see who’s going to cave first. They both know that Leliana’s going to speak up any second now. Maybe he’s looking for signs of remorse. Shame. A sign that she’s sorry for what she’s done.

And maybe Leliana’s looking for forgiveness and understanding.

If she’s looking for either he’s not the one she should be trying to get it from. He can’t give it to her.

If Leliana has done what Bull’s pretty sure she’s done, then there’s someone else she needs to look towards. And well — Leliana didn’t ask him or tell him about it. But knowing her and given the current amount of time they’ve had between Solas’ original confession and now, Bull can guess what she did to confirm it. It would be nice to hear it her say it out loud with his own ears, though.

Bull wonders if anyone else in this room knows. But who would she have told before now? If what Bull’s guessing is true then neither Josephine nor Cullen would’ve kept quiet about it for this long. And who else is there to tell?

Bull raises an eyebrow at her, silently asking her if he’s going to say it or if she is.

Leliana clears her throat, eyes not leaving his.

“There is one other person it could have gone to,” Leliana says and the room goes fully quiet.

“Who?” Cassandra asks. “Who else could it be, Leliana? Neither Corypheus nor Solas are lying about not having it, clearly. Though they are certainly suspect about most other topics. No one here has it. We would have heard by now if someone somewhere else had it. Who?”

“It’s owner,” Leliana says slowly. “The first one.”

Bull doesn’t know how an already quiet room gets even quieter. But it does.

“Ellana died when it was taken from her,” Dorian says quietly. “We all saw it.”

Memory rises to the surface like oil, like offal, like foam.

Ellana and Corypheus in what should have been the final fight. A rematch similar to Haven as rock groaned and floated into the sky, as bursts of flame and red lyrium cracked the ground.

Unlike Haven Corypheus succeeded. The Anchor ripped from Ellana.

Like Haven Ellana also succeeded. In her own way. It didn’t go to Corypheus. By some luck or maybe through Ellana’s stubborn will, the energy that was the Anchor hovered suspended in the air between Ellana and Corypheus before angrily shooting straight up into the air towards the Breach.

Coryephus threw Ellana aside and went after it.

Ellana did not get up.

Her arm was mangled as if stuck in a fire and shredded by demon’s claws. Bone cracked and exposed, skin in tatters, muscle hanging loose. Bull remembers hoping that the death was instant.

Still. The Anchor wasn’t there.

And when they buried her, doing their best to follow Dalish custom, Bull can say with certainty it wasn’t there either. Someone would’ve noticed the thing coming back to her corpse.

“Leliana,” de Fer says quietly, “What did you do?”

Leliana’s eyes still haven’t left Bull’s.

“After Solas explained the situation I sent some of my people to go to the Inquisitor’s grave,” Leliana says. “My intent was to have the body examined.”

There’s another round of shocked silence before a flurry of exclamations.

“Your intent,” Cassandra cuts in, speaking over everyone, “But not your action.”

Bull glances at the woman, a little surprised by how calm she is. He would think that Cassandra Pentaghast would be one of the ones with the most objections to the disturbance of the dead. But she’s worked with Leliana the longest, so he supposes she’s well versed in reading what Leliana hasn’t said.

“I couldn’t,” Leliana says. “They dug well beyond the depth we buried her. She wasn’t there. And I don’t think her body’s been there for a long time.”

Bull closes his eye. And he closes himself up tight, bracing for the wave of words to hit. He seals himself up like a ship lest water get in and ruin him from the inside out. He becomes iron. He becomes stone. He becomes something that is easy to sink but harder to crack.

“The Anchor went home,” Leliana says. “It found its owner. And now we must find her.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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everlock101 · 5 years ago

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Sleeping Arrangements

Everyone in the inner circle grew used to Vell’s strange sleeping habits. She was the Inquisitor and her life was hectic. She was often sent out at all hours of the day and night and had to grab sleep whenever she could.

The first time it happened, she fell asleep on the Iron Bull. She had come into the tavern to meet his Chargers and now that most of them had wandered off, she sat beside him in his typical corner. He was chatting with Krem, laughing over old jobs, when he felt a weight land against his arm. He and Krem both stopped talking and then Krem’s eyes filled with mirth.

Bull looked down to see Vell asleep against him. She looked soft and innocent in her sleep and he recognized the signs of exhaustion. Her caramel skin had pale undertones. There were dark circles under her eyes. She looked skinny.

“Find a blanket, will ya?” Bull ordered. Krem nodded and jumped up. Bull shifted carefully so he was comfortable without waking up Vell. A few moments later, Krem returned with a blanket he had knit himself. Bull gave him a brief smile as he draped it over their sleeping Inquisitor. Vell let out a soft sigh and relaxed even further.

“I told the Chargers to keep it down, Boss,” Krem told him. “They’re going to tell everyone else.” Bull nodded as Marydon’s song changed from a lively tune to a lovely, soft ballad.

Bull knew what it meant to be a leader. He had driven himself to this level of exhaustion before.

And he would stay here all night if it meant Vell got the rest she needed. Because Vell was his friend, someone who had earned his loyalty, respect, and trust and that meant something to Bull.

Vell woke only a few hours later to find Bull snoring loudly. She was mortified until Krem assured her that Bull was all too happy to be her pillow.

…

Vell refused to fall asleep on someone else again. She was mortified that it had happened, especially in such a public place as the tavern. Thankfully, Bull had threatened everyone there not to breathe a word of it to anyone and no one wanted to be on Bull’s bad side.

...

The second time it happened, Solas was in the middle of explaining one of his newer paintings. He turned away from the wall to see Vell’s reaction only to find her asleep on the couch. His words snipped from existence as he stared.

First, he felt offended. She had come in here, had asked about his painting, had genuinely wanted to know. Why? Why had she fallen asleep?

Second, he felt guilt. Guilt was a common emotion around her. He was the reason she was so tired. He was the reason she got hurt so often. He was the reason she had so much on her slim shoulders.

She breathed deeply, obviously in need of a good rest. Solas walked over and carefully pulled the blanket over her. There was a bandage peeking out from under her tunic’s neck. What fresh fight had she gotten into? She hadn’t taken him on her last venture because he had been working on research on the skull shards she had found.

Solas tucked her into the couch as best he could. He gently lifted her head to place a pillow beneath her. She let out a soft sigh as he settled her back.

He couldn’t help but sit beside her for a moment and gaze down at her face. She was young. Especially compared to him and had proven to be a wise, compassionate soul. She didn’t deserve this. This hadn’t been the plan. None of it, especially not the caring part. Because how could he not care about her? When she cared so much about everyone? She had become Da’len to him, little one. Child. Daughter. Seeing her like this, so innocent and vulnerable and sweet, just reinforced that image.

He gave in to his urge to kiss her forehead. She chuffed, shifting a bit in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

“Sleep well, Da’len,” he murmured. Magic trickled from his fingers to her head to bring her good dreams and protection in the Fade.

…

The third time it happened, Varric was in the middle of a story.

“And then, Hawke yelled-” Varric cut off as he looked across the table to see that Vell was fast asleep. She sat in her chair, slumped to one side, a soft smile on her face. Varric let out a soft chuckle. Hawke had done that a few times in the Hanged Man. Once she had told him that the Hanged Man was the only place she could get some peace.

Apparently, Vell was of similar stock. He stood up and gently shook her shoulder. She stirred briefly and barely blinked.

“Boss, you don’t want to sleep in a chair. It’s not going to thank you in the morning.” She mumbled something and her eyes slid back closed. He chuckled, shaking his head. She would regret it in the morning, but he didn’t have the heart to wake her up fully.

He sat beside her and headed off anyone trying to come to talk to her. He also warned Bull to threaten more people against speaking about the Inquisitor sleeping in public.

….

The fourth time it happened, Blackwall and Josie entered the stables to find Vell asleep on a pile of hay. They blinked down at her with Josie letting out a short giggle.

“Poor lass,” Blackwall muttered. He immediately shrugged from his coat and draped it over the sleeping Inquisitor. She didn't even stir.

“It’s hard to see her like this,” Josie admitted. “She always seems so strong.”

“She is strong, but even strong people need a break.” Josie nodded and crouched beside Vell. She brushed some hair from her face and tucked the coat more firmly around her.

They settled by the fire and cuddled up, turned away to give her some privacy while she slept, but close enough to be there if she needed them.

…

The fifth time it happened, Vivienne was searching for her. She walked up to Leliana’s perch.

“Have you seen Vell?” she asked the spymaster. Leliana smiled in that coy manner of hers, a smile Vivienne could and did respect.

“Right this way,” she said. Vivienne’s eyebrow arched as she followed Leliana behind some crates and cages.

Vell lay on the ground, sleeping soundly. She still wore her travel clothes and her head rested on her pack.

“She has the best quarters in Skyhold,” Vivienne commented dryly.

“Apparently, people keep waking her up. She has come up here to hide and sleep before.” Leliana’s voice was full of fondness, an affection mirrored in Vivienne’s eyes.

“So this is where she vanishes off to.” Leliana nodded as Vivienne crouched beside her friend. She wriggled her fingers over Vell and let cool, soothing magic ease any stress in her body. Vell relaxed, letting out a soft sigh. Vivienne straightened and brushed her clothes off.

“I’m glad you’re watching over her,” Vivienne murmured. Leliana nodded.

“She deserves to feel safe.” They exchanged a nod and gazed down at the young Inquisitor. “Come. I’ll share the latest gossip.” Vivienne smiled.

“Excellent.”

…

The sixth time it happened, Dorian was not expecting to have a lapful of Inquisitor. She hadn’t apparently noticed that the chair was occupied. Instead, she had simply fallen into it, asleep before she even hit him. He blinked in shock, expecting her to jump up immediately, but she didn’t. Had she been asleep while walking? There was no other explanation for the fact that she was fast asleep on his lap.

Dorian couldn’t help a chuckle. Vell didn’t stir, didn’t move, just sprawled over him.

Carefully, he shifted her around so she was situated comfortably on him, her head nestled on his shoulder. He flipped his book back open and continued to read.

An hour later, Cassandra walked up. Dorian arched an eyebrow at her. She had never come up to his little library nook before.

“Aw, I see. I was looking for Vell and they told me she was up here. I see that her last mission wore her out.”

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“We fought several groups of bandits. We weren’t able to get much rest while we out.” Dorian nodded. Cassandra gave Vell a small smile, fondness softening her severe face.

“I hope she gets the rest she needs.” Dorian gave her a small smile in return.

…

The seventh time it happened, Sera was drunk. She staggered into her room only to find her usual sleeping bench occupied. Vell with her elfy self, had fallen asleep on her bench.

“Oi!” Vell stirred slightly and blinked blearily at her.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, moving to sit up.

“You look like shite,” Sera slurred. Vell glared at her but Sera just giggled.

Suddenly, Cole appeared. Sera screeched and punched him hard. Cole didn’t seem to notice.

“So tired. Weariness in the bones. Head pounding. How long has it been since I’ve slept?”

“Get out creepy!” Sera shoved him out the door and slammed it shut. Vell sighed and stood up, slumped over from tiredness.

“Can’t you try to get along with him?” she asked.

“No, he’s creepy,” Sera replied. Vell shook her head, too tired to argue tonight. She shuffled toward the door but Sera pushed her back toward the bench.

“Aw, come on. I’m too drunk to kick you out.” Sera fell onto her bench, pulling Vell with her. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Vell let out a weary chuckle before just accepting her fate and falling back asleep.

…

Cullen startled when he felt a warm weight drop against his back. He twisted his head so he could see Vell.

“Come to bed,” she mumbled. He smiled softly.

“A few more minutes, love.” She grumbled.

“You said that an hour ago.” He thought back. Had it really been that long?

“I’m sorry, Vell. I just need to finish this…” He trailed off as lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“Come to bed,” she pleaded wearily and Cullen felt a prick of guilt. She was tired. She had just returned from sealing rifts and that always made her hand hurt and drained her energy.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ll come.” He set aside his work and stood up. She didn’t let go of him, keeping her arms around his waist. He chuckled and moved toward the bed, blowing out the desk candle as he went. She shuffled with him.

“My love, I need to take off my armor.” She sighed and let him go. He turned to see her swaying on her feet.

He hurried to take off his armor and place it on the stand. Since they had begun sleeping together, more of his things had entered her chambers. His armor stand, his clothes in her wardrobe, a few of the things he had collected over the years.

He stripped off his shirt and boots and turned to see her sitting on the edge of the bed half asleep. He smiled and walked up to her. She blinked up at him blearily. He cupped her face and bent down to kiss her. She let out a pleased hum.

“Come on. I’m sorry, love. Let’s go to bed.” She nodded eagerly.

Cullen pulled aside the blankets so they could slip into bed. He pulled the blankets over them and she immediately nestled into him. He kissed her forehead before leaning over her to blow out the candle on the bedside table. The room was left in cool darkness, moonlight shining through on the stone floor.

Vell was already asleep. Cullen smiled against her skin and let himself follow her into dreams.

(I post my writing just for fun. Please, no flames.)

#dragon age inquisition #Inner Circle #Vell #Iron Bull #dorian #drabble #Cullen x Inquisitor #Cole #Sera #Vivienne #Cassandra #Varric

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wyrmzier · 4 years ago

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[Thinks abt my dragon age ocs]

My warden is an elf (very generic of me) mage named Sela Surana, she specialized in spirit healing cause that's my favourite specialization lol. Her mother was a city elf in denerim and Sela lived there until her magic manifested at 8 years old and she lived in the circle ever since. Jowan was like a brother to her and they were ride or die, Sela wholeheartedly believed him and was horrified to discover he was a blood mage and she was betrayed. When she encountered him in Redcliffe she didnt have the heart to kill him, she feels guilty for not realizing sooner, for not stopping him. She believes in the chant and finds comfort in any of the revered mothers blessing her. She believes in second chances and mercy because had Duncan not given her one she'd had ended up dead at the hands of the templars, I like to think her and Nathaniel bonded over this. She romanced Alistair and was closest to him, Zevran, Sten and Nathaniel :))

My Hawke!!! His name is Forrest and hes once again A MAGE! (They're the easiest class to play imo ahahaha) hes both a blood and spirit healing mage, although he only uses blood magic on very rare occasions and he learned it from Merrill :) hes a blue Hawke with occasional purple. He feels very guilty for his sister and mothers deaths and goes out of his way to protect Carver because of it, his strained relationship with his younger brother eats away at him. He romanced my cinnamon apple my soulmate Fenris. He was friends with everyone being at 100% except for Isabela, who vanished after he let her go. Carver became a grey warden and it's almost like hes dead, Forrest misses him thoroughly. Forrest sided with the mages

My inquisitor is named Mahanon Lavellan or Mina for short. He's an elf archer. He's 18 at the start of inquisition, he was at the conclave in place of his older brother Titus (my first inquisitor!) as a reward for earning his vallaslin. Mina is very,,, innocent. He's yet to see the corruption of Thedas. He idolizes the hero of Fereldan, and thoroughly looks up to Solas, Vivienne and Varric. He's incredibly merciful and loves making friends :). He and Sera goof off together all the time, Varric and Bull have taken up the title of "brother figure". Cassandra slightly scares Mina but he respects her deeply. Mina felt hurt by Blackwall lying to him, but in the footsteps of the hero of Fereldan he forgave him. Leliana became the Divine. Mina didnt romance anyone but I like to think he had a puppy crush on Lace Harding. Mina thinks his brother and Dorian would get along. Mina's mother is alive and well and her name is Malora, she's a musician. Titus feels like it's his fault Mina became the inquisitor and has a lot of guilt over it, especially watching his little brother become hardened and jaded over the years. Titus left their clan to watch over Mina at skyhold, Malora visits. Over the years Mina's innocence is lost, he remains a kind person but hes less animated and bright eyed, after Solas' betrayal and discovering what his Gods hes respected and worshipped for years are actually like he lost it all, he became very quiet and tired all the time and dismantled the inquisition paranoid it would become corrupted like the grey wardens he looked up to. He now stays with Sera as a red Jenny, he feels like he cant settle down anymore, he tried going back home to his clan for a bit but it never felt the same, despite his depression he still has a strong desire to do good and he kinda has a messiah complex

#i love them all #thx for coming to my tedtalk #dragon age #rambles #dragon age spoilers

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wootensmith · 5 years ago

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Ataashi

The late summer sun warmed the Crow Fens to a thick, cloying haze. The ferns were fragrant in the heavy heat, and the long dry spell had killed off most of the insects, so it was an improvement over the Fallow Mire. At least, Solas considered it one. If it weren’t for chasing wyverns through bracken and over tumbled rock, it might even have been pleasant. Cassandra had initially been reluctant to travel to the plains in search of a rare ingredient for Vivienne, fearing the Inquisitor was becoming distracted. But once they’d arrived and found Leliana’s agents battling back wyverns on an almost hourly basis, her hesitation died and there’d been no complaints from anyone since. Iron Bull’s good natured conversation about technique with Cassandra had been a comforting sort of drone all afternoon a few dozen feet ahead, punctuated by short bursts of combat, and Solas was tired but in a satisfying, well-worn sort of way. It felt gratifying to be set on some small purpose, some easily achievable task. To put the larger ones out of mind for a time and just let his body and magic do the heavy lifting.

After their quarrel over the Qunari, he’d been terrified the Inquisitor would leave him behind again. That she’d decide it wasn’t enough, what he’d said, what he’d tried to do. By all rights, he knew, she should have. She’d watched him, watched how he spoke with the others, how he’d reacted when she’d told him Iron Bull would be along for the mission. She’d walked, once, out to the crumbled statue beyond Skyhold. He found her there, staring at the rubble and tried to apologize, but she’d only asked, “Why this one?” He should have told her the truth. Should have lanced the wound completely. It was an ideal moment to do so. She was calm, kind, open. Instead, he said only, “It was not a rational action. I was— not myself.” She’d slipped her hand into his and led him away from the stones and said nothing more of their argument. She’d remained close to him throughout the trip and he’d forgone too much sleep in order to sit with her during her nightly watch, but he could not regret it, tired though he was.

They’d found the white wyvern near the noxious sulfur pools and chased it through the steaming mud nearby. The smell made Solas’s eyes water and he could hear Cassandra coughing before the wyvern had fallen to her sword. “We need to get out of here, Boss,” rasped Iron Bull. The Inquisitor was elbow deep in the beast’s carcass. “Vivienne needs the heart,” she gasped. “Let me drag it out of here then.” “Almost finished.” “Inquisitor, do you know how to field dress a wyvern?” coughed Cassandra. She hesitated. Iron Bull grabbed the scaly tail and heaved it through the thick muck toward cleaner air. When they were breathing easier, it was Cassandra who took over the butchering. “Used to do this with Anthony,” she said, shooing the Inquisitor away. “I know how to do it without damaging the organs.” Solas poured some water over the Inquisitor’s bloody hands. She laughed softly. “It’s a losing battle, my love,” she told him. “We are covered head to toe in mud as it is.” Iron Bull stretched with a sigh. “Can’t wait to sink into the river. Too bad it’s such a hike from camp. It’ll be dark by the time we get back.” “We’ll go to Riverwatch instead,” said the Inquisitor. “I have messages from Loranil for his clan anyway and Riverwatch is far closer.” “One more moment,” muttered Cassandra. “Do you have something to carry it?” “I have it.” Solas slung his pack from his shoulder and pulled out the enchanted box.

He had his suspicions about the heart’s use, but the Inquisitor had said little about Vivienne’s request and the simple ward against decay that wreathed the box told him nothing about her intentions. “Leave it,” the Inquisitor had told him when he’d asked. “She wants no aid except to retrieve this piece for her. I’ve already offered.” And because the argument over Bull had still not completely vanished between them, Solas had dropped the question of the heart rather than press for more information. There were few tinctures he knew of that could make use of it and though Vivienne obviously had her own ambitions, he could not believe any of them conflicted with the Inquisition. She would never use it to harm them. He opened the box’s lid and held it out to Cassandra. The heart dropped heavily into the wooden case. He was busy trying to find a decent spot in his pack for it when they heard the first roar.

The marshy water rippled under the sudden breeze as a massive wing beat overhead. “Maker’s Mercy,” sighed Cassandra, rising from the wyvern carcass, “What now?” “Oh,” said Bull turning to follow the sound, “Today is a good day. Today is a very good day.” He pulled the mace from his back. The breeze dissipated the clouds of sulfur steam in great curls and Solas could see the dark violet scales of the dragon as it landed beyond. “No, Bull,” the Inquisitor cried even as he took off toward the enormous beast, “Dorian will kill me!” “C’mon, Boss,” he called back, “We needed a little excitement. Get your blood racing.” “It is very close to the Inquisition camp, Vhenan,” said Solas. “And we’ve wiped out its hunting ground. It’ll look farther for prey with the wyverns gone.” “Female, too,” added Cassandra, already drawing her sword. “That’s a nest she’s building back there.” The Inquisitor sighed. “Very well. I can see I’m outnumbered.” “Yes!” cried Bull. “Stay out of the water,” called Casssandra, “it’s a stormrider.” The Inquisitor jogged beside him through the closing clouds of sulfur. “I won’t be much help then,” she muttered. “Your barrier will be invaluable,” said Solas. She ducked as the beast’s enormous tail arced toward them, pulling Solas down with her. The air above them crackled as it swung past. Her barrier welled outward, slipping over and past him and she tugged him toward the others, crouching as they ran. Iron Bull was already swinging before her barrier had encircled him.

“Come on, Seeker,” he called back over his shoulder, “You aren’t going to let me have all the fun, are you? Get in there, the scratches in your armor will buff out.” Cassandra grunted and slammed a shield against the dragon’s jaw, shoving it up so that Iron Bull could get a better shot at its thickly scaled neck. The dragon’s head whipped back and Solas sent a wave of ice into its side. His feet tingled slightly and the Inquisitor grabbed his shoulder, pulling him from the muck onto a stone poking from the water. The barrier sizzled with angry silver veins as the dragon’s lightning skittered over it. Iron Bull swore and shook his hand trying to ease the small shock that made it through the Inquisitor’s barrier. It only made him swing harder. “Watch your flank,” Solas called, flinching as a foreclaw missed Bull’s shoulder by inches. “That’s what the Seeker’s for,” he rumbled. But Cassandra went flying as the claw connected with her shield and landed on her back in the mud. The Inquisitor called out beside him and Solas had the strange expanding sensation as the Veil stretched violently around him. The dragon froze as if paralyzed. He hated when she activated the anchor that way. It was always a panicked, wild thing. He suspected it was hastening the spread of the mark in her palm. “Don’t do that,” fumed Cassandra, scrambling up. “I’m well. And that always makes my flesh crawl.” She hacked at the giant claw that hung still suspended above her. Solas glanced over at the Inquisitor. Her expression was pained and her hand shook, but the mark held the beast in place. If she insisted on using it that way, he wouldn’t squander the time she bought them. He cast a boulder at the dragon’s skull, knocking its jaw farther up. “Hit it, Bull. Before the Veil wavers.” Iron Bull roared, spun his mace and struck true, crushing a large swathe of scale until they flew in jagged shards from its chest. “Hurry!” gasped the Inquisitor. Solas could feel the wobble as the spell began to fail, and the prickle of lightning gathering around the dragon. “Now, Seeker!” he cried, building a thin shell of ice over the beast’s hide. Cassandra dropped her shield, gripped her sword with both hands and lunged forward, her sword sinking into the unprotected gap below the dragon’s throat. The mark sputtered and the spell failed. The dragon’s head whipped down, hissing. Lightning snapped in narrow arcs between its jaws. “It’s going to strike,” warned Solas, already weaving his own barrier to replace the Inquisitor’s. Cassandra yanked, opening a wide slash. The water beneath the beast’s feet bubbled and sizzled. A gout of blood poured from its chest and the massive head plowed forward. Solas got the barrier up. Just barely. An enormous flash and heat pulsed around them, the water vaporizing into a thick cloud. Solas felt the stone shake beneath him, but could no longer see the dragon or Cassandra and Iron Bull. The Inquisitor caught him before he could topple. A triumphant shout echoed through the fog.

“Are you well?” he asked, turning to her. She was still flexing and closing her marked hand as if it pained her. “Yes, I—” “Taarsidath-an halsaam!” shouted Bull from somewhere deep in the mist. Solas coughed and flushed. Maybe his Qunlat wasn’t as inadequate as he’d feared. The Inquisitor shook her head in confusion. “Bull says he’s well, too,” he offered her. The fog began to settle, condensing on his skin, sparkling in her hair. She stepped from the rock into the mud, headed for the others. Iron Bull leaned against the dragon’s head, rubbing Cassandra’s shield with his forearm, trying to clean the dirt from it. “You don’t have to do that, Bull,” said the Seeker, rocking her sword slowly free of the beast’s clavicle. Bull shrugged. “I know you like it to shine. But I sure do enjoy when you scratch up the paint a little. That was a magnificent strike.” “You softened it up for me. Quite literally,” she laughed. She pulled the sword free and scowled at it. “It’s unbalanced now. I’ll have to take it to the smithy.” “You’re both uninjured?” asked the Inquisitor. Iron Bull stretched his arm. “Little stiff and I could use a bath, Boss. You? You look— tired after that thing you did with the mark. Always seem tired after that.” He glanced in Solas’s direction and Cassandra sheathed her sword and wrung her hands. They were both worried. “I’m well,” said the Inquisitor. “It’s just been a long day. Let’s inform the agents and then head to the river. We can send word to Loranil’s clan. There is much to salvage from the body. It’ll help them until their hunters return. U— unless you wish to—” Cassandra shook her head. “No. I think it a fine plan. The Inquisition has not even properly stored the bones and scales from the last dragon you slew. It would only go to waste.” “Tell them I’ll pay them a sovereign for a tooth,” said Bull. He picked up his mace.

The sun was sinking over the river by the time they reached it. Solas’s robes had stiffened and chafed with the thick coat of dried mud and wyvern blood. They were all too tired to stand on ceremony or even to talk much as they stripped off the filthy outer layers of clothing and armor and plunged into the water. Iron Bull sunk and then bobbed up with a contented sigh. “This was a good day,” he said. “It was,” agreed Cassandra easily, rinsing her hair. “I didn’t expect it to be quite so— satisfying a trip as it has been. The events at Adamant made me forget there are times like these. To just— be in the world. Without fear and destruction and madness constantly threatening. It is— pleasant to be out here. With all of you.” “Indeed, it is a relief to be facing only dragons and wyverns,” said Solas. “Though Dorian might have disagreed.” “Mmm,” said Bull. “I think the Boss only gave up the remains so there’d be no evidence. I won’t tell if you won’t.” The Inquisitor smiled, rinsing her hands. “You think he’d be angry with me? He only just let you out of his sight after the trouble with those assassins. He’d lock you in the mage tower if we told him.” She said it lightly and went back to her washing, but Solas could see the unease beneath. The way she drifted off as the other two talked and laughed. The way the tiny muscle at the corner of her jaw, pulsed occasionally, the way she rubbed at her marked palm. He waited until they had settled on the beach, the fire crackling, new clothes warm and dry around him. She stared pensively at the flames. Cassandra had gone to write her report and Iron Bull was bartering for dragon pieces with a very pleased Dalish messenger.

“What troubles you, Vhenan?” he asked her at last. “Is it the anchor? Is it painful?” She shook her head. “I am well,” she said, though it was obvious that she wasn’t. She watched Iron Bull and the messenger intently. Then she reached for her pack, frowning into it as she rummaged through it. He thought it best not to ask and was surprised when she at last spoke again, a deep flush coloring her cheeks. “Do you— could I possibly borrow a silver?” she asked. “I forgot that I lost my ironbark bracelet in the explosion.” “You want to buy a bracelet from Hawen’s clan?” he asked, already reaching into his coin purse. She’d never shown any sort of desire for jewelry before, but it was a simple thing and— “No,” she said, cutting off his thought. “I— you will think it foolish. Please, Solas, lend it to me this once. I’ll ask the clan to repay you.” He pressed the coin into her palm. “It is a gift. I will not ask what it is for, if it will put you at ease. But I will ask the ambassador why you’ve been given none of your own when we return. You should not be searching your pack for heirlooms when need arises.” “Thank you,” she said, kissing his cheek before hurrying to the messenger. He was troubled by the way the Dalish man’s grin evaporated after a moment speaking to her. And by the way Iron Bull scratched at the base of his horns as if he were nervous, but Solas had promised not to pry, so he left it. She seemed more relaxed when she returned and he was lulled into thinking it had been some small vanity that she had indulged.

The trip back to Skyhold had been easy, if long. When they returned to the fortress, however, they found work had piled up while they were away and that Vivienne’s need for the wyvern heart had only grown more urgent. Solas wasn’t able to discover that it was meant for her Duke until after the potion had failed. The dragon and the coin were long forgotten, lost under the growing pressure of anticipating Corypheus’s next move. It was almost two weeks later that the entire incident came back to haunt him. It was late, long after the midnight bell when Varric pounded on the door of his quarters. It took several seconds to disentangle himself from his dreams and Varric was already yelling through the door by the time Solas rose. “We could really use some help out here, Chuckles. We’ve got maybe five minutes before Iron Bull and the Inquisitor slaughter each other— depending on how drunk they really are.” Solas opened the door. “My money’s on Iron Bull being less drunk than her. You know, size difference and all,” said Varric, “but that just means the Inquisitor’s at risk of setting the keep on fire when a lightning bolt goes wide.” “I’m uncertain what you’re—” muttered Solas, but Varric grabbed his elbow dragging him out of his room. “No time. I’ll explain on the way.” He trotted along just ahead of Solas, who hurried to keep up. “It was that damned dragon. It’s always the damned dragons. Never fought one without it being a bad idea. I used to tell Hawke—” “Varric,” Solas called after him, “What has this to do with Iron Bull and the Inquisitor?” “Right, right. Iron Bull proposed a drink to celebrate the dragon you downed in the Crow Fens. I told him that turpentine was too strong. She’s used to Cabot’s watered-down ale. And even that’s not often.” He tripped over a flagstone in the dark and Solas reached to haul him up before he could hit the pavement. “Easy,” he said, casting a spell to light the stairs to the rotunda.

“Not me you should be worried about.” Varric ran down the steps. “They started arguing, three or four drinks in,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Something about blasphemy and Elven gods. Should have come to get you then, but Dorian thought he could handle it.” Varric yanked the door open and the ravens sleepily cawed at the disturbance. He ignored them and led Solas down the rotunda. “I thought she’d just drink herself to sleep and Tiny would carry her up to her bed and that’d be the end of it, so I just… left it. Sorry.” “It’s still unclear why you’re in such a panic,” said Solas. “I lost most of the argument, some of it was about old stories, very old, and then Sera and Blackwall pulled me away for a game of cards, but it got— loud. And before I knew it, the two of them were headed for the sparring ring with Dorian trying desperately to slow them down. He yelled for me to find you and— here we are.” He opened the door to the causeway and Solas could immediately hear the murmur of several voices below. “Great,” sighed Varric, “They’ve drawn a crowd. Cassandra’ll have a fit.”

A bright gold flare erupted from the sparring ring. Dorian’s barrier. His voice traveled over the low drone of the crowd. “You idiots. Stop it. You’ll hurt each other, especially in this state. And you’ll regret it in the morning.” “Move out— out of the way, Dorian,” the Inquisitor’s voice slid and wavered. Solas couldn’t tell if she were just intoxicated or if there were some weepiness in it. He pushed past Varric and sprinted down the steps. “Not gonna hurt her, Kadan,” rumbled Bull. “Jus’ gonna— whass that Cass always calls it? ‘Ven’ her spleen’. Think thass it.” “You better not hold back, Bull, I won’t,” warned the Inquisitor. “Look atcha, Boss. Can’t even lift the damn thing. Get a lot further with your staff.” “Don’t help her, Bull. Swords I can stop. But a spell goes wide and— my barrier is only so big,” said Dorian. Solas had reached the small knot of people next to the sparring ring and wove through them. Half were listing and reeked of ale. The others were guards who should still be on rounds, distracted by the sudden noise and activity. “Ssorry I hafta kill you, Bull,” said the Inquisitor. “You don’t,” snapped Dorian. “Do,” insisted the Inquisitor. “’S blas— blaphem— wrong what 'e said. Don’ want to hurt him. Love you, Bull. But hafta avenge what you said.” “It was meant in a respectful way,” cried Bull. Solas had reached the edge of the ring. The Inquisitor was on the far end, trailing an enormous sword in the dirt and leaning alarmingly to one side. She was weeping. And a mess. Iron Bull stood close to Solas, only a shield on his arm. He looked as if he might weep as well. Dorian’s barrier shone between them, a giant orb and Dorian furious in the center. “You can drop this whole thing. Let your Mythal defend herself if it’s so important,” he fumed and tried to disarm the Inquisitor with a spell, but it seemed she was not so impaired as she appeared. Or the deflection was just muscle memory by now, Solas wasn’t certain. The ragged laugh from the Inquisitor— that was not inebriation. It was the same despairing, hideous rasp of terror he’d heard her utter when she was recovering in the Western Approach. He leaped over the low fence at the edge of the ring.

“She can’t. So I must. Move, Dorian. Be ready, Bull.” She raised the sword with great effort and it almost tipped her. “Aw, come on, Boss. I didn’t mean it that way. And you’re crying. Can’t hit you while you’re crying. Less jus’ go back to the tavern. Have an ale and a card game, whaddya say? Forget the whole thing. I won’ say anything else about the dragon—” He raised his shield because she was careening toward him. Solas wouldn’t make it across the ring in time and she simply ran past Dorian. Solas stepped in front of Iron Bull. “Stop, Vhenan,” he said sternly and she skidded to a stop. The weight of the sword pulled her over and its tip buried itself in the dirt. It took her a moment to right herself, but she left the tip of the sword dragging, the hilt loose in her hand. “Move, emma lath. He must answer for what he said.” He didn’t, though Bull tugged gently on his shoulder. “She won’t hurt me, Solas,” he said quietly. “Let her get it out. So we can be friends again.” “You’ve never been one to jump to judgment, Inquisitor. What is it he said that could possibly warrant this?” he asked instead. “That he—” she leaned toward him and continued in a reeking, breathy whisper. “That he got sexual pleasure from our kill. And that he believed the Qunari mated with dragons long ago.” If she hadn’t been standing there still holding a sword and her face streaked with tears at the thought of harming her friend, Solas might have laughed. As ridiculous as the whole situation appeared to him, he could tell it held some sort of deadly serious drunken logic in her own mind. Bull’s too, somehow, if the man’s clenched grip on his shield were any indication. “I don’t understand,” Solas admitted, still planted solidly in her path. “What do either of those things have to do with you? Or with the Pantheon? Why is it worth hurting an ally?” “Dragons are Mythal’s. SSacred. Not for— for that. I should not have killed the one in the Crow Fens. I would be doubly damned if I allowed such sspeech to go unanswered,” she slurred. “I thought— after Orlais, that you no longer believed in the gods.” The sword did drop from her hand and landed with a puff of dust. “I want to. I want to believe in them,” she cried and covered her face.

Solas turned to Bull. “You should go now,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to— I thought it would be a celebration—” “This is not your doing. Go to bed. And take the crowd with you. She’ll be better, if embarrassed, in the morning.” Dorian had reached them and pulled Bull back toward the entrance of the ring. “I don’t know what I did, Kadan,” Bull muttered. “Aside from that rotgut you call a drink, I’m not sure either. Best let Solas sort it out. You’re both ridiculous, but you both survived, that’s good enough for one night.” The Inquisitor had crouched into the dust, her face still covered. Solas knelt in front of her as the space behind the ring slowly emptied with Varric’s encouragement. She stank as if she’d been steeped in torch fluid. He doubted she was rational enough that anything he said could truly affect her train of thought. What he ought to do was simply comfort her. Put her to bed. Let her nurse a hangover and some shame in the morning. That would be kinder. Cole appeared, leaning against a training dummy. “She won’t believe you,” he said. The Inquisitor did not look up, and Solas knew she could not hear Cole. “She’d want to, but she won’t. ‘Kinder in the long run,’ that’s what you said you wanted. Even if she did believe you for the night, it’s not the long run. You’ve taken everything. Can’t you leave the truth in its place for her to lean on?” He flickered out. Solas closed an arm around her waist. “Come, Vhenan. You need a bath.”

The baths were empty this late. As safe a place to talk as any and less likely to draw the attention that carrying her to her quarters would have. The warm water seemed to restore some of her awareness, if only slightly. He wondered how much she’d recall in the morning. “I’m sorry,” she said, as he scrubbed the overpowering smell of alcohol from her hair. “We’ve all overindulged from time to time. It’s never proven a habit with you. I’m not upset.” “Not about— well, yes. But about the coin, too.” “The coin?” he asked as if he’d forgotten the strange request, though he could still feel the warmth of the silver under his fingers when he’d pressed it into her palm. He poured a pitcher of water into her hair, rinsing the stench away. “I—” her voice caught for a second. “I used it for an offering to Mythal. I asked Hawen’s clan to make it on my behalf. For killing the dragon. I feared— I feared it would only worsen my punishment if I made it myself. Because I could no longer believe.” He sighed, frustrated, but she pressed on, quickly, as if she feared he’d interrupt her. “I would have used the bracelet. I should not have asked you for the coin. I knew if I told you what I intended, you’d refuse. I’m sorry.” He was uncertain how to comfort her without encouraging the lie she continued to chase after. “I would not have refused,” he settled on at last. She turned her face toward him and he wiped away the drops of water that slithered down her neck. “It will help the clan. It is a small thing that can do a great good. They will be able to buy food or warmth or safe passage with it.” She watched him, her face tired and worn. He wondered if she’d really been as drunk as the others thought. Perhaps she’d only let them think it so she could let go without alarming them. No, she’d never threaten Bull if she hadn’t been, he thought. “But Mythal doesn’t care, Vhenan,” he added. “Not about what Iron Bull says. Nor about removing a dragon that was threatening settlements. Nor— nor about your offering. Or even you. Ir abelas, emma lath. I know that hurts.” “But it is her symbol, her form—” “Yes. And it is also a beast. That requires food and nesting space. That hunts what it can, including us. That mates and bleeds and dies. That is all. You could as soon have made an offering to the Old Gods of Tevinter, if symbols were truly that important. They are no more gods than Mythal is. And that is far more blasphemous than anything Iron Bull said. Will you strike me down, instead?” “You know that I will not,” she said, though her expression was deeply troubled. “Perhaps Mythal will then? If she cares so much, perhaps it will draw her from her long silence and she will strike me down for blasphemy. But she has not done so yet.” “Don’t say such things,” the Inquisitor turned and stopped his mouth with her fingers. “Don’t tempt her.”

He shook his head with a soft smile. “She does not care. For better or worse. A real god has no need to prove herself. Your dragon slaying does not touch a real god’s power. Nor does Bull’s lust. Nor my unbelief. And if it did, then she would not be worthy of your offerings. I understand why you want to believe in them. I understand the comfort that can bring. But everything you want them to provide— it’s already here. Kindness and purpose and dignity— you do not need the gods.” He spilled a handful of water over her cheeks, washing the tear tracks away as she shut her eyes. “But you are tired. And not at your most rational. If I cannot ease your fear of Mythal’s anger, then at least believe this: whatever you or Bull have done or neglected to do, whatever slight you imagine will bring about her wrath or the wrath of any of the Pantheon, I swear to you, my own heresy is worse. And yet I remain whole. No divine punishment has reached me yet.” She opened her eyes. “There was a hole in the sky, Solas. And we’re facing the possible end of the world.” “And it threatens the devout and unbelievers alike. Is Hawen’s clan deserving of that terror? Cassandra who believes so ardently in her own god? Iron Bull who keeps the Qun even after his own people have banished him? It seems a very broad punishment if that is, indeed, what it is. This is not the hand of the gods, my love. Just the madness of a man who yearns to take a god’s power.” “How do you know?” she asked, her eyes filling again. He wondered if she were asking about more than the Breach. He chose to answer the simpler question and smiled, brushing her cheek again. “Because all of it led me to you. And I am wholly undeserving.” “You aren’t,” she protested. “That is why it is so flattering. You chose me of your own accord, not as a result of some mythical god using you as a reward. You are free, Vhenan.Your actions are a result of the world around you, just as Corypheus’s actions are. As are the consequences. They are not a judgment meted out by a god. The only thing striking Bull would do is to hurt a friend. Just as the only thing that coin will do is buy a meal or two for some hungry elves.” “It’s too much, Solas. Too much to think that if I fail there will be no intervention. No justice.” “But there will be. There always is. It will not be an intervention from any god, but from your colleagues. From your descendants. From me, if any breath remains. Your faith should be in them, for theirs is surely in you, no matter which god they may claim you for. There will be justice, at last, no matter whether Corypheus is stopped by your hand or by someone’s far after our lifespans. And it will be because of what we tried to do.” “If you’re wrong? If Mythal is only sleeping? If the Dread Wolf only locked them away?” He laughed softly and curled around her. “If I am wrong and they are truly gods, do you think your wickedness is enough to break the enchantment Fen’harel wrought centuries ago and call them forth? You think that Iron Bull was the first to blaspheme? Or that the dragon in the Crow Fens were the first to be slain? It is not even the first dragon you have slain. I told you. I have done far more to earn their ire than you ever could. They would seek me out long before they reached you or Bull. As long as I still stand, you are safe from them.” She frowned. “They cannot have you. Or they must take us both.” He kissed her forehead. “They have not appeared yet. And you left your sword in the sparring ring.” She began to laugh and he smiled fondly. “Come to bed, Vhenan,” he told her. “We can battle the gods in the morning, when your head is clear.”

#solas #lavellan #solas x lavellan #iron bull #dragon age inquisition

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buttsonthebeach · 5 years ago

Text

Miles to Go

@lyrium-lovesong asked me to write about her lovely universe once more, and I jumped at the chance to tackle Cullen’s POV! Thank you for this treat, friend <3

I previously wrote Saltwater, which features Freya.

Pairing: Freya Lavellan x Cullen Rutherford

Rating: General

**********

Cullen Rutherford was, allegedly, a master of self-restraint. A man who had spent his life studying it, in fact. A man who had combed through the Chantry’s litanies searching for more and more and more of it. Seeking out where all the lines were and then judiciously avoiding or guarding those lines.

Some of that had fallen away, after Meredith. Kirkwall. But in large part he still prided himself on it. He did not take unnecessary risks in his chess games with Dorian. He did not lose his temper when Leliana and Josephine argued for courses of action that he disagreed with, or when they teased him. Most importantly, he had not once taken lyrium again.

(He’d opened the pouch yes, yes, looked at it, thought about it, dreamed about it, thrown the whole thing against walls, yes, but all of those were further signs of his self-restraint.)

And he, of course, did not spend time worrying about Freya Lavellan while she was away.

That, besides the lyrium, was his greatest self-restraint. At least in Cullen’s own eyes - he had not told anyone else he felt that way. Most people would laugh at the thought. The great Commander, struggling to restrain himself from giving in to worry. So he wore that secret close to his skin, beneath every layer of armor. Swallowed it down like a sick man’s bile.

He feared for Freya almost as much as he loved her.

She was in the Emerald Graves hunting Red Templars, looking for evidence Samson had left behind, when he articulated those words clearly to himself. It was two weeks after she’d left, and he was lying in his bed, looking up at the blue-black night above him through the hole in his ceiling, at the pinpricks of the stars. After so long inside stone walls and towers it was good to be reminded they were there. This night, the comfort of that thought was interlaced with thoughts of Freya - which stars she looked upon, where she was sleeping, how her day had gone, how many times she had risked herself in battle against Corypheus’s forces, against monstrous creatures.

The thoughts were as entwined as he wished they were at that moment. The stars are beautiful tonight, and I miss Freya. The breeze feels good, and I wish Freya was here. He longed for her so strongly that the longing took physical shape and crawled into bed beside him, half convincing him that she was there, her leg thrown across his, her head pillowed on his chest, the scent of her skin and her red hair tickling his nose. At one point, half-asleep, he reached out to touch her, to stroke her back and kiss her forehead, only to realize with a start she was not there. He knew soldiers who had lost limbs, and said it felt like this - like there were times the limb seemed to come back to them, so real they could feel it once again, only to vanish like smoke.

I fear for Freya almost as much as I love her.

There was a mathematical logic in that thought, he supposed, rolling over, trying to chase the feeling of loss away. Perhaps the Maker had always weighed out fear and love in equal parts, like a merchant weighing gold and goods (you must pay this much fear for this much love) and Cullen had never known it until now. What was not logical was how much he’d been struggling to sleep since Freya left. He’d slept alone most of his life, and there were still many nights when she slept in her own chambers even when she was at Skyhold. He should be more used to this than he was to having her here, her cold feet seeking the warmth of his body, her wriggling and stirring and even occasional snoring startling him awake.

And yet, there he was, unable to sleep. Unable to think of anything but her.

Some self-restraint.

So he sat up, slung himself out of bed, and went to put on his armor. Maybe the ritual of that would be enough to bring him back to himself, his discipline. Instead he found himself thinking of her again, of the time she asked to be taught how to help him with his armor, how he’d told her it wasn’t necessary, he knew how to remove it and don it himself. How she’d rolled her eyes at him.

“I know that,” she’d said. “But I want to learn. Just because you can do something yourself doesn’t mean you should always have to.”

And just like that, there were phantom hands alongside his own - smaller and more gentle, hands used for picking herbs and healing the sick, and Cullen wanted to drop his hands to his sides and let them take over. To surrender to the feeling of being loved and cared for.

But no one was there. Not really.

Maybe she isn’t coming back this time.

He strode out of his chambers, willing the thought to stay behind.

As he made his way down the rampart that connected his chambers to the rotunda, he saw a soldier approaching at a quick step, and instinctively straightened his posture, tensed his jaw. He needed to be Commander Rutherford, now. Not some lovesick fool.

“Commander Rutherford. Did someone already come to wake you?”

“No. I had an idea to improve our defenses here, and I wanted to walk and make notes before the idea left me.”

Lying to people under his command never failed to leave a bad taste in his mouth, but it was still better than the truth. Your Commander misses his lover so much that he can’t sleep.

“Oh. That works out I suppose. I was sent to wake you and tell you that you are wanted at the War Table. The Inquisitor has sent urgent correspondence back from the Emerald Graves. She thinks she may know where Samson and his lot can be found - where we might get to the secret of Samson’s armor.”

Cullen’s heart leapt twice - once at the thought that they might have his former colleague pinned down, and then once, even higher, at the confirmation that this news from Freya was recent. That there would be a letter from her waiting at the War Table, written in her hand, that perhaps other letters had arrived, more personal ones.

You have truly gone soft, Rutherford. Focus.

He followed the soldier through the rotunda, across the cavernous great hall, past its empty throne, and down the long crumbling corridor that led to the War Table. Leliana and Josephine were both already present, Josephine looking particularly tired, while Leliana looked as alert as ever. He wondered what sort of impression he presented.

“Well,” Cullen said. “Let’s see this letter.”

“Letters, actually,” Leliana said, handing him a packet of parchment, and once again, Cullen’s heartbeat picked up its tempo, just a little, just enough for him to notice, at the thought that they all might be from Freya.

Instead they were all in Samson’s hand, dark and angular. He pressed hard on his pencils and quills whenever he wrote, leaving splotches and splatters of ink, or smearing the charcoal. Cullen experienced a moment of childish frustration, wanting to push them aside and ask if there had been any from Freya, or if these had just arrived with no context at all. Then a wave of shame washed over him, settling by his feet, lapping at his ankles, making him feel cold even beneath the layers of armor. He had dedicated himself to the Inquisition and its cause before he ever dedicated himself to Freya. How dare he let his personal feelings interfere with the task at hand for even an instant? Especially when being a good commander was the best thing he could do to ensure Freya’s safety?

“She got these from intercepting caravans of red lyrium in the Graves, yes?” Cullen asked as he skimmed them for more details, a picture already forming in his mind. None of the letters directly stated where the red lyrium came from, but they did talk about how long it was taking to get where it was going, and that gave him an idea of where to start looking on the map.

“That is correct. I am reading her letter now,” Josephine said, and Cullen’s eyes flicked towards her, seeing the parchment in her hand, seeing how the candlelight illuminated it so that he could see Freya’s handwriting clear as day. Cullen would let her finish reading it. It would be his turn soon enough, and then he could trace the letters, and it would be as close as he had come to touching her in weeks.

“Does she say where they were found?”

Cullen continued his questioning and studying, half of his attention on the smugglers’ letters, half on the answers Josephine and Leliana gave. He was forming a picture in his mind, imaging both the paths of the Red Templars and Freya in the Emerald Graves. She’d been there once before already and told him how brilliantly green they were, and how haunted they seemed. Life and death entwined. What stories would she bring back to him this time?

“Emprise du Lion,” he said finally. “I can study the maps and routes more thoroughly tomorrow, but I am fairly certain. They are quarrying the red lyrium in Emprise du Lion and then shipping it throughout Thedas. The Emerald Graves has been a major thoroughfare, but I am more than willing to believe that Freya has made a mess of that plan in the course of acquiring these letters.”

Pride tinged the words - because he feared for her, yes, but he was also fiercely proud of her. This brave and capable woman who chose to come back to him when she was done saving the world.

(Even if it seemed like it would never really be done, like it would only grow more dangerous each day.)

“As am I,” Leliana said. “I would respond telling her to rendezvous with us here in Skyhold before heading out to the Emprise, but she says here that there is a matter Solas wishes to attend to in the Exalted Plains. Depending on how long that takes, she may not be able to return to us in Skyhold before the passage is blocked by snow and ice.”

“That is not the worst turn of events,” Josephine mused. “We might wish to redirect Inquisition forces to aid her before she gets there. Your spies for intelligence, Cullen’s soldiers for support against the Red Templars, my nobles for supplies and shelter.”

“Agreed,” Leliana said. “We will continue to coordinate that with her as she heads to the Plains and back. Cullen?”

It was a good plan.

It was a good plan that would keep Freya away from Skyhold for several more weeks, and send her into the depths of the Red Templars’ organization.

He felt his fingers tightening on the letters, and forced himself to relax.

“Yes. Let us begin drawing up the letters and other orders.”

They worked long enough on the plans that by the time they emerged, the sky was beginning to lighten - deep navy turning to a softer shade of blue, gold and pink tingeing the easternmost mountaintops. Cullen knew that soon Freya would wake and see the same dawn.

I hope you get the chance to enjoy it, love. I can’t wait until the next time we watch one together. I miss you. I love you.

“Cullen,” Josephine called. She held out a small square of parchment as she approached. “This was tucked inside the envelope that everything else came in. I only just noticed it. I believe it is for you.”

Cullen waited until Josephine had walked a distance away, and then he unfolded it, and saw Freya’s messiest handwriting, and six short words.

I miss you. I love you.

An echo of his own unspoken words just moments before - a miracle as real as anything in the Chant of Light. A reminder that his life was not all self-restraint and fear. That love could outweigh all of it, and yet also lighten every burden he carried. It was not a guarantee against all the darkness in the world, against all the things that could go wrong - but it was a miracle nonetheless.

Cullen smiled and walked on, ready to face the dawn.

#beach writes #beach does commissions #cullavellan #freya lavellan #cullen rutherford #lyrium-lovesong

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angelofame · 5 years ago

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The Lion with the Raven Wings Chapter 3

In a world where soulmates recognize each other on their marks, two souls find each other due to a common course.

Cullen joined the Inquisition because he wanted to help, to redeem himself. Not in his wildest dreams, he would have ever imagined he would meet his soulmate. Raven just wanted to prevent further bloodshed, not be the Herald of Andraste nor meet her soulmate in the middle of a war.

Can they help become each other the best version of themselves and prevail together, or will they both shatter at their own insecurities?

A Soulmate AU

________________

If you have missed the previous chapter,s you can find it here

——

Cullen was the first to arrive at the war room the next morning. The next ones to appear were Leliana and Josephine. They were quietly whispering to each other. Then Cassandra barged into the room.

The last to arrive was the Herald. Her face was bare again. The others looked at her, stunned, except Leliana, of course. The spymaster knew probably already about the uniqueness of clan Lavelan. While asking, "Do I have something on my face?" Raven ran her hand over her face to check for dirt or food residue.

"No, Herald, it's just that ... your face...?" Josephine tried to politely ask the question of, "Where is your vallaslin?" Cassandra blurted out. "Oh, that..." And then she told them the same story she had told him the evening before.

After she had enlightened them about the history of her clan, they continued with the meeting. It was decided that Raven would meet mother Giselle in the Hinterlands. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas would accompany her to the Hinterlands. Soon after the meeting had ended, they set off to their destination.

Cullen, hours later, was watching the recruits fight. He walked from one group to another: correcting and criticizing and sometimes demonstrating how to do it better.

Rylen, his second in command, stood beside him. "The recruits show great promise." "They are not a hopeless case." Cullen agreed. "But most of them have a long way ahead of themselves, till they are ready for a real fight."

They began to strategize how to train their soldiers best when suddenly a strange weight landed on Cullen's shoulder. He turned his head to the right and looked into the amber-colored eyes of an owl.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen exclaimed. The tawny owl hooted back as if to greet him. Cullen tried to dislocate the owl through moving his shoulder back and forth. When tath didn't work, He tried shooing it away with his left hand.

But the owl seemed not to care. Instead, it snuggled closer to Cullen's ear. The sound it gave off at the moment reminded Cullen of a purring cat but with owl sounds. 'What a strange owl.', he thought.

There was one more thing he could try to get the owl of his shoulder. Carefully he placed both his hands on the plumage at its side. When it didn't react negatively, he gently grasped the owl and equally gently lifted it from his shoulder.

The owl hooted protestingly but didn't do more than that. Cullen set it down on a nearby tree branch where he hoped it would stay or fly off to somewhere else. Fly off it did, but not in the intended direction.

It landed on his shoulder, again, this time on his left. Rylen, who had watched the scene with a bright smile on his face, burst out laughing.

Cullen turned his irritation from the animal, which abused him as a seat to his second in command. Then Cullen took note of the absence of the sound of clashing swords and bashing shields.

With the promise of punishment in his eyes, he turned towards his soldiers. He seized up every last one of them, daring them to move the corner of their mouths upwards.

Nobody moved a muscle; nobody wanted to be at the receiving end of the commander's ire.

"Continue the training!" he finally barked. The owl hooted soothingly at him.

Raven and her companions were pretty busy. They met with Mother Giselle, spoke with Master Dennet, liberated a fort from bandits.

Cullen got the news that they would be arriving back at camp soon a week later. The past week he and the owl had come to an understanding. The owl was allowed to reside on his shoulder during the day. She - Adan had told him that the owl was female - would mostly rest there and was off hunting in the night, when she didn't sit next to him on his cot. If she, in return, delivered messages for him.

She had gone so far as in bringing him his quill or other little things if he needed them. His soldiers sometimes looked strange at him, but they were mostly used to it by now.

He was walking through the gate when he saw the group with the Herald arrive back at Haven. The owl sat on his shoulder, dozing, having just got a share of his meat.

Raven dismounted a bit apart from the others, patted her halla on the neck before she walked towards him. She was a few feet away from him when her facial expression changed from delighted to sour.

"You traitor," she hissed. "I was worried about you. I thought you were hurt, or I don't know dead. No word, nothing, and here you are. Standing as nothing had happened, not a care in the world."

That Cullen was confused would be the biggest understatement at the moment. When she called him a little bitch, he had enough.

"Herald, may I ask what I did to upset you?" he asked evenly.

She looked confused. Then her mouth formed a wordless o as she just realized something before she went beet red.

"My apologies, Cullen, I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to her."

She pointed to his right shoulder, the shoulder where an innocent-looking owl was sitting.

Understanding dawned upon him. "She is yours," he concluded.

"As far as one can be the owner of this stubborn owl," Raven answered, then she turned back to the owl.

"Snowy, can you please get my satchel. I know you don't want to. You have a gorgeous man who tends to you, but if you do that, we can think about shared custody. Deal?" She appealed to the owl. It seemed to work because Snowy spread her wings and vanished into the forest.

"I am sorry if she was a handful. I try to encourage her to leave you alone.", she apologized. "She wasn't a bother. She was, surprisingly, good company...for an owl."

Raven gifted him a bright smile at his words, then waved goodbye.

"So, you made a new friend, Curly," Varric said from behind him.

@rachelleofalltrades @darlingrutherford @kemvee

#fanfic #The Lion with The Raven Wings #cullen x mage #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x lavellan #commander cullen #soulmates #soulmate mark

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sinsbymanka · 5 years ago

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The Girl with the Arrow Tattoo Update! Chapter 32: The Sound of Silence

In which Haven is destroyed and Maria Cadash is buried while they watch helplessly from above. Full story on AO3!

When Maria was a little girl, Nanna told her that dwarves built Ostwick, that they built many surface cities ages before. Nanna of course didn’t care for them, those first deserters of the Deep Roads were nothing but thieves and murderers exiled from their home according to her. They were the same people who founded the illegal smuggling operations her eldest granddaughter would someday join, although Zarra never considered that possibility. The second wave of dwarves fleeing, of course, happened to be the houses that would make up the Dwarven Financiers Union. Those blood traitors (Nanna’s words, not hers, although the sentiment felt accurate) planned their exit strategically and left their homeland in a lurch as the remaining once great houses scrambled to save their home.

The great stone cities underground still stood, but nobody visited. Dwarven architecture lasted the test of time, after all.

Maria’s people, her ancestors, were among the last dwarves to flee their dying cities at the turn of the industrial age. The last ones to see the only hope of survival was to abandon their pride, their blighted stone, and take their chances up on the surface where the dwarves with money and power shoved their brethren into dark, dank factories churning out poison only slightly less lethal than what killed the remaining dwarves beneath their feet.

But, Nanna grudgingly admitted, there was nothing like good dwarven architecture and Ostwick had plenty of it thanks to those traitorous bastards. Ostwick was built to last the ages even as the buildings grew higher and people from every corner of the world poured into the city.

Maria wished Haven had been built the same way. There was no dwarven stone to protect them here, nothing but wood cottages with cheerful painted clapboard going up in smoke and flame. Only one building in Haven was made of heavy brick, the quaint little chantry, and that’s where they all fled to instinctively like nugs escaping a flood, blind and desperate in the smoke.

Screams for help pierced the night around them. The dragon made another pass overhead and they pressed themselves flush against one of houses, the roof above them erupting into flames. From inside, Maria heard weak, desperate sobs for help. She pressed her hand automatically to the doorknob and found it blazing hot. She swore and wrenched her burned fingers away, darting to the side of the house.

“Cadash!” Dorian hissed, unaware of the people trapped inside. The rear exit was blocked by some burning debris, a fallen electric pole maybe. But there was a window high above her, one she couldn’t quite reach even if she stretched as much as she could.

“What are you…” Varric followed her. Of course he followed her. She turned to him insistently, braced her hands on his shoulders and fought the urge to curl into his welcome warmth and give herself over to horrified sobs.

“Lift me up.” She demanded instead.

He arched a brow. “Is this really…”

“Listen!” She slapped his shoulder, even though she shouldn’t have, and pointed up over her head. His face went blank for an uncomprehending second, then understanding dawned on him and he mumbled a curse under his breath.

“How in the world did you hear that through all of this?” Dorian asked, aghast. She ignored him. Varric still wasn’t moving fast enough for the urgency of the situation. She dug her fingers into his shoulders hard enough to bruise and glared steadily into his eyes. “I know you can bleedin’ boost me up there!”

If he could carry her the whole way up to her bedroom while kissing her within an inch of her life without dropping her he should be more than capable of tossing her through a window. He finally acquiesced and bent at the waist. He tossed his broad, sturdy arms around her thighs and hoisted her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip to reach for the high window, trying valiantly to ignore the way his hands squeezed just below her ass, his face pressed just below her breasts.

“This isn’t how I planned on getting my hands on you again.” He joked weakly.

She gripped the windowsill and tried to shove the pane glass open, but it didn’t budge. “Close your eyes and look down.” She ordered tersely. “Both of you.”

To his credit, Varric shut his eyes immediately, like he’d aided and abetted in a hundred break-ins. It was Dorian who continued to stare up at her, and she thought part of that reason may have been the sudden keen interest in the man’s too shrewd eyes when he heard the word ‘again.’ “Dorian!” She snapped waspishly.

When they both finally dropped their gaze, she thrust her elbow through the glass and it shattered easily despite the jarring throb to her sore shoulder. She tried to punch out as much glass as she could, peering through the smoke filling the home. She saw two figures huddled together and yelled. “Here! Over here!”

Thank fucking Andraste herself they moved at her voice. She hauled herself through the window, a tight fit, but manageable. Varric yelled her name as she vanished from view, but Maria simply rolled to the tile floor and shoved her arm over her mouth to try and keep from inhaling the acrid smoke. There was a kitchen chair nearby, a rickety old thing, but it would have to do. She pulled it over and the first figure, a skinny child with a human’s too long limbs, was thrust up onto it by the woman behind him. The kid paused, uncertain, peering down into the darkness outside.

“Jump!” Maria yelled, coughing on the smoke. “They’ll catch you!”

For a second, she still thought he wouldn’t, but his mother’s hushed, gentle words convinced him to clamber up through the sill. She watched him pause, breathless, before he tumbled into the abyss outside.

“You next!” Maria ordered, shoving the woman forward. She clambered up and vanished through the opening in seconds. Maria jumped up on the chair herself, listened to the threatening crack of the flimsy wood and leapt for the windowsill. She caught it just in time, the chair falling to pieces beneath her as she struggled to lever more of her upper body through the opening. She heard the panicked caw of a bird, her name ringing in the alley, felt fingers wrap around her wrists and tugging her forward. Dorian released a blistering torrent of swearing she didn’t understand, then she could breathe again, the air crisp and clear in her lungs before gravity took over and she toppled out of the window.

She collapsed on top of a sputtering Tevinter witch, his face embedded in her breasts while Nyx flapped above them in a panic.

“C’mon, we’ve got to move.” Varric urged, pulling her up by the damn arm that’d been nearly wrenched from her shoulder. She winced in his iron grip and he loosened it immediately, running his thumb over her arm apologetically instead while his eyes caught Dorian’s on the ground. “Sparkler, you with us?”

“All of me but my spleen, perhaps, which is almost certainly ruptured.” He complained acidically.

“I’m not that heavy.” Maria muttered under her breath.

“Perhaps not for chiseled dwarven physiques.” Dorian grumbled under his breath. She ignored him as they pushed back out into the square.

Bull guarded the outside of the chantry like a dragon himself, horns thrown in sharp relief by the flickering flames. He shoved soldiers and witches past him like he threw opponents in his boxing ring. She couldn’t decide if it felt like yesterday or a million years ago that she’d sat and watched him stalk the ring like an old god. Flames threw his craggy features into sharp relief and she didn’t know whether it was fear or relief that made her break out into a cold sweat.

“You’re late boss.” He growled, one long arm reaching out to sweep her inside. They were among the last and Cullen stood in the center of the chantry, blood dripping from a gash over his chest, but shouting orders. Beside him, Leliana and Josie both looked grim.

“Herald!” Leliana shouted. Maria wished she wouldn’t have. The crowd parted around her, people staring and whispering. She imagined she could hear their venom, their recrimination. She’d brought this down upon them somehow. Perhaps it had been when she lost her temper at the Lord Seeker, perhaps when she’d snubbed them to go to Redcliffe. Her decisions led them here. Her actions.

Her cowardice because if she was what they wanted, she could have just gone and maybe everyone else would have been safe. She hunched her shoulders forward defensively and ducked her head.

Just in time to be nearly knocked off her feet by sturdy, warm arms wrapping around her. Bea’s lips pressed against her cheek. “Thank the soddin’ Maker.” Bea whispered, pulling back to sweep her eyes over Maria’s form. “Thank our fucking ancestors or whoever the fuck is out there. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Outside, the dragon screeched and Bea flinched, but didn’t pull away. Maria reached to rip her hand off her jacket. “Bea, go back downstairs.”

She meant it to sound like an order, but Bea had never been good at following instructions. She dug her nails into the leather more insistently, blanching in the dim beams of flashlights bouncing around the cavernous space.

Maria didn’t have time to fight with her. Instead, she stalked away, Bea’s fist remaining resolutely embedded in her jacket. She was gratified to see Cole at her sister’s elbow, pale and quiet as a ghost. At least they were both still okay, at least…

At least they were together. And as they walked she saw the rest of the people she worked with peel off to join them. Vivienne and Cassandra. Blackwall, Solas leaning on him and limping. Sera with an angry burn on her arm.

“The dragon stole back whatever time we’d bought ourselves.” Cullen snapped feverishly. “We’re cornered and I fear if we surrender…”

“We have children.” Josephine protested shrilly, trying to press a cloth to Cullen’s chest to stem the bleeding. Her fingers shook, but she maintained her resolute demeanor.

“Witch children.” Leliana murmured. “They will not stop to separate them from the others and they pledged to eradicate all the witches in Thedas.”

“We’re going to die.” Cullen dropped his voice low, but not so low that Beatrix didn’t hear it. Her sister made a small, choked noise in her throat. “They’re beyond taking prisoners. We have nowhere to retreat. We’re sitting in our tomb.”

As if to punctuate his statement, the whole building rattled. Cullen’s face twisted into bitter defeat. “We may as well take the rest of the explosives and detonate them here. It would be faster.”

“No!” The word fell out of Bea’s mouth before Maria could say anything at all. “No, I don’t…”

She knew what Bea’s mind flashed to. Knew what she saw as soon as Cullen hurled those words into the air. She felt herself transported back to their old apartment immediately, felt her hand on her father’s bedroom door, heard her voice echo in the silence as she called for him. She could smell the gunsmoke and iron of blood like she’d never walked away from that door. She could feel the earth trailing through her fingers while she stood above a fresh grave.

“We can’t give up.” Bea was panicking and Bea couldn’t panic, because Bea always did the stupidest shit when she did, but Maria couldn’t quite find the words to soothe her.

Cole did instead.

“But there’s a way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cullen spat furiously. “There isn’t…”

“The witch who put the hollow crown on the king’s head.” Cole murmured, curling in on himself, hand reaching blindly for Maria’s own. He grasped her fingers tightly and squeezed. “She laughs while she spins her spells. The first time she came here, she was so afraid, but she’s stronger, smarter, older. Can’t catch her if she can’t be caught. Never be in the tower again, never be chained again. Free, flying, fierce…”

“Wait!” Leliana burst out, reaching gentle, trembling fingers to turn Cole’s chin to her eyes. “Do you feel her? My Warden?”

Leliana’s anguish was palpable, her eyes shining. “Chantal, was she…”

“She smiles when you sing. Hums the songs you taught her as she works. The king ordered her to seal them up, make them safe, make them secret, make them gone. But crows leave nests to flee back to, she knows that. Can’t catch her. Can’t send her back. Can’t see through her spells unless they know where to look.”

“Maker…” Leliana whispered, then shook her head as the building rattled again. Someone screamed. “Maker bless her.”

“What is it?” Jospehine asked.

“The tunnels!” Leliana exclaimed. “When we first came here, we discovered the people in this village using forbidden magic in the tunnels beneath Haven. Ali sent Chantal here to destroy them after the war but…”

“She didn’t.” Cole repeated. “She couldn’t.”

“The tunnels are still there, then, hidden. Chantal…” Leliana’s eyes sparked triumphantly.

“I heard she was a master of illusions.” Vivienne drawled thoughtfully, approaching as if she hadn’t been listening to every word. “I confess, I would love to discover her tricks. Her glamors were legendary, yes?”

“You have no idea.” Leliana muttered. “We would need the best witches to untangle her knots and we never explored all the tunnels. They must all end outside, eventually, but I cannot say they are free from traps or where they lead.”

“Take Dorian and Vivienne, then.” Maria directed with a hiss, turning back to Bea and threading her fingers through her sister’s curls, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s going to be fine. We’re not giving up, okay? We’re going to get through this.”

Bea nodded, eyes closed, fingers shaking while she cupped Maria’s hand with her own. Maria pressed a searing kiss to her sister’s nose. They couldn’t give up, Maria always swore to Bea they wouldn’t end up like dad, they wouldn’t…

“Bianca.” Varric ordered tersely. “I need every record you can dig up for tunnels under Haven. Maps are best, anything from the electric company denoting access points further down the mountain would be top priority, but I’ll take what we can get. Maybe help us avoid any nasty surprises down there.”

Cullen launched into a plan immediately. “If we can find these tunnels, we need time to evacuate. The remaining forces are coming, if we allow them, they will follow us. The explosives are already here, if we collapse this building down after we leave…”

“Sera can rig a remote detonator.” Bea whispered.

“Fuck yeah I can.” Sera muttered darkly.

Of course she could. And of course Bea would hit it off with the most insane and dangerous woman within fifty square miles. And Maria, for some reason, couldn’t feel better about it. She managed a small, she hoped slightly reassuring, smile for Bea. “Can you help her?”

“Can you stay safe?” Bea countered, opening her eyes. “For once in your damn life can you do that?”

“I’ll try.” Maria promised.

Bea nodded, trying her best to be satisfied with that. Maria dropped her hand from her hair and pulled back with a kiss on her sister’s flushed cheek. She lightly pushed Bea away. “Go on then.”

Bea staggered away, looking over her shoulder as she ducked through the crowd, following Sera pushing through. Maria couldn’t watch her stumble away, couldn’t reconcile the elegant way she usually moved with the fear that made her sister wooden and jerky instead. Bea shouldn’t even be here. Wouldn’t be here, except Maria dragged everyone down with her. Just like she always had.

The building shook. A small trickle of dust fell from the ceiling, stuck to the sweat and grime on her forehead. She wiped the grit off and stared up at the hard line of Cullen’s jaw.

“If this building collapses before we can evacuate…”

“He knows you’re here.” Cole’s voice cut insistently through the panicked melee of voices. “He doesn’t care about the people. Doesn’t care about the town. The Elder One wants…”

“Me.” Maria interrupted.

“You.” Cole confirmed softly. “The herald.”

She wanted to scream that she wasn’t anyone’s damn herald, that she’d never claimed to be, that she’d tried to stop it. She wasn’t sent by Andraste, she wasn’t chosen or special. She was…

She was going back into the fire, back into the darkness, back into the night because if she didn’t, the dragon would bring the whole thing crashing down on their ears and everyone she cared about would die in the rubble and flames.

“Stick with Bea, Cole.” She directed grimly. “Cullen, I want your pistol and all the ammunition you have left.”

“No!” Cole protested. “If he gets you…”

“He won’t.” She had to believe that. If she stopped believing that, she’d never find the courage to leave. “When my sister and Sera get that detonator sorted, get it to me. I’ll stay outside as long as I can, draw them away from here. Then I’ll run back here and press the damn button as soon as I’m in the tunnels.”

It was the only path. The only way forward. And it was a damn long shot, she could see it in Cullen’s face as he calculated her odds. She could feel it in the suddenly heavy silence around her while the core of their team tried to consider if there was any other way.

“We will find these tunnels.” Vivienne declared cooly. “And we will await you on the other side, darling.”

Maria wished she had Vivienne’s confidence as the woman lifted her chin in elegant determination and strode toward the doors leading deep into the chantry, the steps that would take her into the basement. From behind her, she heard the rustle of fabric, felt warm fingers trail lightly across her shoulder as Dorian pressed past. He didn’t look down, she didn’t look up. Maria wondered if he was just as afraid of it feeling like a goodbye as she was.

“Varric.” Cassandra snapped impatiently. “You are the one with the maps, you need to go with them.”

Varric. Something thumped unevenly inside her, a thin glass wall shattering, reminding her that no matter how much she tried to ignore his presence, she no more could banish it than she could rid herself of the fear threading her veins. Everyone was speaking, debating where they should go, what they should do, making plans to get the refugees out with as much of the supplies stashed below that they could, and Varric…

Varric was arguing with the Seeker that he needed to stay with her. She couldn’t keep track of the words over her spiking heartbeat while she focused on the gun Cullen pressed into her hand, his leftover ammunition.

“Maker be with you, Herald.” Cullen folded her fingers around it and she tried not to laugh hysterically. One small pistol, one small dwarf, against a dragon and whatever remained of an army of monsters.

“The Seeker’s right, Varric.” She didn’t even need to listen to Cassandra to know the Seeker was right. “You and your damn glasses can help spot traps too. And your fucking robot can find a path out.”

She watched him throw himself to the monsters once trying to save her. She couldn’t watch it again. She wouldn’t. He had asked her to forget it, but sweet ancestors she couldn’t. All she could do was stop it from happening again.

“Princess I -”

Maria whirled on Varric, gun in her hand, furious, frightened, and desperate. “Do you have a better plan?”

She knew he didn’t. He knew he didn’t. There wasn’t a better plan and he looked just as terrified as she felt, just as resigned. This, this was the only plan, and it was a shitty one, and they were all probably going to die, especially her, and….

Fucking sod it all, then.

She darted forward into the space around him, the space the still smelled slightly of his cologne underneath the lingering scent of smoke. She crashed her lips against his in a kiss that bruised, brought her free hand up to tug him closer by a steely grip in his hair. He froze in stunned disbelief, just like she had the first time she’d decided to say fuck it all and kiss the blasted man, before one arm wrapped snugly around her waist and pulled her tight. He tasted like iron, like gunpowder and fire and he held onto her like...

Like he couldn’t bear to let her go.

Before she could convince herself to believe that, she pulled herself away. Cullen coughed awkwardly in the background. High above Varric’s shoulder, Bull had the good grace to pretend to be very interested in the ceiling crumbling above them.

Although, really, that was the more pressing problem than the ache in her chest as she smoothed Varric’s sweat-slicked hair back. His eyes were closed, his breathing heavy, and sweet Andraste if she was going to die at least she had this, even if she only had it for a second, even if it meant nothing.

It had been enough.

She apologized, silently, to Fynn’s ghost while she whispered one more time to Varric.

“Go.” She ordered, wrenching herself out of his loose grip. “Now.”

She stalked away without looking back, she couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t lose her nerve if she saw him staring after her.

She wasn’t surprised the Bull shadowed her. She dropped her eyes to her gun, checking the magazine. “You could stay, you know. This isn’t going to be easy.”

Or safe. Or sane.

“And let you have all the fun?” Bull asked with a rueful laugh. “You always knew how to find the best trouble, boss.”

“Well.” Maria looked up from her pistol with a watery smile, one hand braced against the chantry door. “You always said you wanted to fight a dragon.”

She expected the dragon to incinerate her on sight as it passed, low enough she could see the gleaming scales of it’s belly flickering with firelight, so low the rush of air whipped strands of her hair across her face.

Instead, the dragon soared upwards with another screech, turning south and back into the pass. Maria didn’t have time to appreciate their sudden good fortune because within moments it was obvious they weren’t alone.

It was like the templars had been waiting for her to reappear, wolves circling, monsters craning in the darkness to catch sight of her brilliant red hair. She heard their cracked, parched voices screaming for the false herald. Then the first round of bullets split the smoke and she dashed to a piece of burning debris, a pile of what once had probably been a charming, picturesque chimney. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bull fold himself behind an overturned car.

She aimed at the vague shapes in the dark, in the smoke, but she couldn’t tell if she hit anyone or anything. She thought, perhaps, she heard a strangled shout. The rumble of Bull’s rifle split the night and Maria wondered if this reminded him of Seheron, if he regretted finding himself back on a battlefield.

It didn’t matter, it was all mechanics. Deft fingers exchanging an empty magazine for a full one as quickly as she could. Aim and squeeze, aim and shoot. They weren’t people, not anymore, these were monsters that only sounded like people when they fell because she could barely see their grotesque forms in the dark.

She saw one shadow drop as she squeezed the trigger, but when she took aim at another and pulled, the gun rattled ominously empty. She swore and dropped her hand to her jacket pocket, moving as quickly as she could as the footfalls picked up pace, intent on storming her makeshift barrier while she struggled to reload.

She didn’t have enough time, she knew she didn’t, so she dropped the magazine and waited only a fraction of a second for the large, human-ish shape to appear, gun pointed right at her forehead. If he would have pulled the trigger, she’d have been dead instantly. But he didn’t, and instead Maria swung her leg out. She caught him right at the knees, the hit hard enough to send him down.

They didn’t pick templars for their flimsiness. He was up in a half second, glowing red eyes blazing in his face, red lines burned underneath it like lava. He’d dropped the gun he’d been holding, but he didn’t need it. His fist slammed into her unguarded abdomen so hard and fast it sent Maria toppling into the grey slush beneath her.

She could barely catch her breath, her muscles clenching and spasming, but she rolled to the side just in time to avoid the red lyrium encrusted glove smashing into the ground beside her. The human scrambled on top of her, shoving her down into the snow, and she brought up one knee to catch him in the groin, praying that it worked just as well on monsters as it did on men.

She was lucky. Despite aiming blind and breathless, her shin connected just right to cause the monster on top of her to howl and fold in on himself. She shoved herself up, scrambling in the snow, fingers numb and freezing, trying to get to his loaded weapon if she couldn’t load hers.

His fist clenched in her hair and ripped a half-formed whimper from her throat as he twisted her neck violently to the side, but her fingers had found searing hot metal in the darkness, wrapped around it like a lifeline despite the burn. She fumbled it blindly and pressed the muzzle to the form behind her.

The blast was muffled, but his scream pierced her ears as he released her hair. She was on her feet in a second, twisting to finish him off, but before she could another shot echoed and the man fell.

The Seeker loomed over her, features fierce, eyes calculating. “Are you hurt?”

Even if she was, it wouldn’t matter. Cassandra held something white in her hand, thrust it forward without a word and Maria’s hand closed over the detonator with a thud. “My sister?” She asked quickly.

“Stated she would not leave without you.” Cassandra snapped. Maria’s heart began to sink, but Cassandra kept speaking with a steely glare into the darkness, aiming and picking off one of the approaching monsters effortlessly. “So Blackwall threw her over his shoulder and manhandled her into the tunnels on my orders. I thought it was what you would wish.”

She could kiss the Seeker. She really could. Maria pointed her stolen gun into the dark and fired twice, dropping two more templars that were approaching Bull’s position. Cassandra reached into her pocket and pulled her phone from within, bringing it to her lips. “I am with the Herald and Bull. I will remain here until we receive the signal.”

“10-4 Seeker.” Varric’s graveled voice replied. “Keep her safe.”

Maria hoped the heat rising in her face wasn’t as transparently obvious as it was in Cassandra’s.

A knot in Varric’s chest loosened. The Seeker was with her, the Seeker was a battering ram, a match for Aveline if ever one existed. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

Sweet fucking Andraste he could still taste her, could still feel her fingers in his hair, the dip and curve of her waist and the press of her body against his. That brief kiss reignited every ounce of passion that had cooled in the grim realities of desperate, pitched battle for their lives.

And yet, this time, the sheer scale of his veneration was too recent to be forgotten entirely. The woman who pressed searing lips to his also held their front lines a truly impressive amount of time, managed to topple a behemoth with her precise aim and perfect timing, heard a cry for help in the midst of pure chaos and climbed through fire without a second thought to rescue civilians as a bloodthirsty dragon circled their heads.

His inner author took copious notes. The rest of him stood silent in shocked, reverent awe like a man enraptured with a goddess.

And he’d left her. Left her to face a dragon. Left her knowing Hawke’s cards spelled doom. He knew their situation was impossible, knew they were very likely all going to die, knew she’d be in the greatest danger of all and even still…

He left because a part of him, a shriveled, weary part of him, believed. Hell, not that she was Andraste’s choosen because that was an idiotic notion, but Maria…

He believed in her. He was beginning to believe in her like he’d believed in nothing else.

He had to keep that in mind, because if he thought for a second she wouldn’t survive this, he’d throw his tablet right at Dorian’s head and turn tail back up through the tunnels while the rest of them tried to figure out where the fuck they were going.

Ideally, they’d be heading south, under the templars, down into the mountain pass. That would get them close to the Hinterlands and all the little, charming towns and villages scattered among the area. Even though the countryside was war-torn, he’d take it over the hell erupting above their heads. He’d even drag Maria back into Redcliffe if they needed to.

Unfortunately, they weren’t going south. The tunnels veered west, straight under the Frostback mountains, which wasn’t particularly somewhere they wanted to be stuck with a shit ton of people carrying whatever supplies they could manage to haul with them. Varric could hear the great mass lumbering some distance behind him, the wail of children, clipped orders from the remaining soldiers ushering them through. Varric feared he was navigating them all right into the asscrack of Ferelden and Orlais.

Still better than being murdered by red templars, but only marginally.

“We’re going to get lost and starve to death, aren’t we?” Dorian asked the silence surrounding them. “A glorious end for the Inquisition.”

“Weren’t you camping behind some farm in Redcliffe when we met, darling?” Vivienne sniffed.

“Don’t remind me.” Dorian sighed wearily. “Worst week of my life and not just because I met you.”

Varric couldn’t help himself, he snorted half a laugh. Immediately, both witches turned their critical gaze to him and his tablet. Varric mouth worked quickly as he and Bianca continued to examine and contrast the different maps side by side. “Some people explore tunnels like this for fun. I think it’s called spelunking.”

“Is that what you and our dear Herald were up to before we got kicked in the teeth by an army?” Dorian drawled. “Spelunking?”

Varric Tethras wasn’t one to kiss and tell, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, but before he could retort, Vivienne made a noise of sudden understanding.

“Ah, that does explain his role in the Inquisition.” She tapped her elegant manicured fingers against her chin thoughtfully. “I assumed it was simply to annoy Cassandra.”

Before he could retort that he may be short, but he certainly wasn’t deaf and was in fact, right there, his eyes zeroed in on something in front of him that caused his heart to nearly stop in sheer excitement. “Bianca.” He called out, eyes roaming the maps frantically. “Can we use an old natural gas conduit to get into the mining tunnels?”

“There are no natural gas conduits listed on the maps.” Bianca stated cooly. “But if one could be found…”

Bianca wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t see what he did. Thank the fucking Ancestors Hawke spent so much time dragging him through Kirkwall’s sewers, because Varric recognized the conduit entrance like a glowing neon sign. Varric ran forward to the hatch on the wall, ripped it open with all his rather considerable strength. He poked his head through and shone the light from his phone down the dark tunnel. His knees almost went weak when he saw another hatch some distance down. If he was right, and he was pretty certain he was, that would deposit them in the old mining tunnels, and those could be followed back to the surface easily.

“Bianca, connect me to Curly.” He directed. “I’ve got a way out.”

She felt like she’d been fighting for hours. Her arms shook with exhaustion, her mouth was full of ash and soot. Every movement came robotically, came without thought, her mind wiped clean of everything except blood, except death, except sheer, animalistic survival. They’d been forced back against the chantry doors, their backs nearly against the wall, and still they came. It was unstoppable. Relentless.

But she still didn’t expect Bull to fall first.

The great mountain of a qunari didn’t scream, he only grunted as he’d been doing the entire gunfight, but the hot blood splashed against Maria’s face and he crumbled to one side, his other arm bracing on the rough stones behind him. Maria didn’t even know she could still form words, but his name was in her mouth instantly, her arm over the gaping wound in his abdomen.

“It’s alright boss.” Bull tried to grab for his gun, and that’s when Maria realized it wasn’t just the one wound. There was at least one more, high on his shoulder, a gauge through the rippling muscle. She suspected another in his leg.

“Bull!” The blood pulsed through her fingers, like Fynn’s had, warm and sticky. Panic nearly stole her breath as he winced under her and Maria looked to Cassandra. “Get him inside.”

“We have not received the signal.” Cassandra responded tersely, eyes scanning the darkness that suddenly seemed empty. Too empty.

“I’ll wait for the signal.”

“I will wait for the signal while you…” Cassandra argued.

“Maria.” Bull hissed her name, but it sounded too quiet. It sounded like it was fading and there was so much blood, so much…

“I can’t carry him!” Maria screamed the words into the night, fury hiding her fear. She couldn’t lose Bull, not like this, not with his blood on her hands just like Fynn’s, not when he’d been the one that held her while she keened for his loss.

She couldn’t lose Bull because he refused to abandon her again, even when it was the smarter option, and she couldn’t carry him, she was too small, but Cassandra could. Cassandra had to. “Please, please.”

She couldn’t tell what stunned Cassandra more, her temper or her pleading, but she saw the effect they had on the Seeker. Beside her, Bull cursed in Qunlat, the low rumble dim and incoherent.

She had lost so much, she couldn’t bear to lose the one friend she’d always had. If Andraste or the Maker was watching, if they were listening, they had to do this one thing for her. It was all she asked.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened and she thrust her phone into Maria’s hand. Then she knelt down and slung one of Bull’s hulking arms over her shoulder. Maria nearly cried in relief even as Bull made a noise of protest, even as his large hand brushed against her red hair.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” Her voice shook. “Just don’t bleedin’ die on me, you big asshole.”

“I will wait in the tunnels.” Cassandra promised, eyes blazing as Maria twisted to wrench the big chantry doors open, once pristine, now scarred with signs of bullets and fire. “As soon as he gives the signal, abandon the fight.”

Maria simply nodded, but it was enough for Cassandra. The Seeker dragged the hulking form of Bull through the open door. Maria waited for the space of one heartbeat, two, before she slammed it shut after them. She had the detonator in her pocket, Cassandra’s phone in one hand, gun in the other. Around her, Haven blazed like an inferno, but it was quiet. Finally, blissfully, silent.

Quiet like her ancestor’s tombs.

Quiet except for the beat of wings in the air. A sound that chilled her to her bones. She pulled back from the door, fastening her eyes on the sky above, pinning the huge figure of the dragon against the flickering flames. It barreled through the sky, fire sparking in its throat, heading straight towards her.

She had little choice, she tore herself away from the chantry doors just in the nick of time, running for her life as far from the building as she could. The spot where she had stood erupted into a tower of flames immediately, the old wooden door catching blaze in seconds.

The force of the dragon landing rocked the very ground like an earthquake and sent her sprawling back into the ashy snow. Cassandra’s phone skidded away, but she kept her grip on her gun and pushed herself to her knees, spinning to face the beast.

It’s head was twice the size of her small form, easily, and it screeched while she staggered backwards. She waited for it to spew flames, to finish her where she stood, instead it simply raised one wing as if shrugging a shoulder at her insignificance.

There was someone underneath the shiny black wing, someone tall and slender, someone that looked more corpse than person.

“You are the one they call the herald of Andraste.” It drawled, seeming to float rather than stride. All of Maria’s hair stood on end and she raised her pistol on instinct, aiming for the indistinct figure.

The gun wrenched out of her hand so suddenly it startled a cry from her lips, the power burning her fingertips like open flames as the gun skittered far beyond her reach. She brought them to her numb lips and stared in growing horror at the emerging man. He stood taller than even Bull, but made of nothing but mottled ruined flesh studded with red lyrium. He stared down at her with pale, furious eyes. “The dwarf who ruined my plans. A mere slip of a girl with nothing more than luck. And yet, they would call you a god.”

“What do you want?” Despite her fear, she managed to push the question through her chattering teeth. What could possibly be worth this destruction, this death? Why? Why?

“I want the opportunity you stole. The magic in your form that belongs to me, not you.” He was above her now, looming through the poisonous smoke like the most terrifying demon Maria had ever seen. “The god you claim to serve…”

“I don’t…” She protested.

“SILENCE!” He roared, reaching down to wrench her from the snow. She thought he meant to pull her upright, but to her shocked dismay, he lifted her effortlessly until she dangled from her throbbing shoulder, spinning in his withered grip. “You have been raised up by superstition and hysteria, as all gods are. Not one has been worthy of the name.”

The Maker wasn’t her God, nor was his bride of any particular use to her. Nanna said the Stone once called to their people and if you were quiet, you could hear it singing softly still like a mother in mourning.

If that was true, it didn’t sing to her. It never had.

The creature threw her to the ground and Maria hit it so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. “I will give this world the god it deserves…” The creature promised silkily. “But first, I require what you took…”

“I didn’t fucking take…” Her temper flared, the profanity boiling in her mouth, but before she could say much else the man began to speak. The second he started, the breath caught in her lungs and turned solid like cement. She was choking on it. She didn’t understand what he was saying, the words dark and heavy, foreign and only barely reminiscent of the musical curse words from Dorian’s language.

She felt like they landed on her skin, burning like hot coals, like brands, starting in her fingertips and rising up her wrist, her arm, her shoulder. They grew brighter, hotter, she swore she heard her skin sizzling.

A scream pierced the air. At first, she didn’t recognize the terrible, echoing sound as hers, not until it was joined by another before the first finished echoing. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t fight him.

All she could do was scream.

Varric didn’t realize Harding was recording. Not at first. She crouched beside him, pulling people from the tunnels and into the snow. Her voice blended into the mess of babbled prayers, strangled shouts, sobs of relief and horror. Below them, glowing in a blaze of flames, Haven stood. He couldn’t make out anything there, nothing beyond shadows and fire, the chantry building still standing tall. He couldn’t hear gunfire, but he couldn’t stop to listen for it. All he could do was reach for the next grimy pair of hands.

A kid, no older than sixteen, held Harding’s phone in shaking hands, trained on the reporter and the mass of people she was hauling out of the tunnels beside Varric. Her words came, clipped and furious, terse and to the point. “There is no telling how many people have perished in this unprovoked attack or what the templar order intends to do next. Haven’s refugees will require food, medicine, and safe transport. The soldiers that are left are unable to single-handedly…”

“Are you live?” He asked incredulously. Harding flicked an annoyed glance at him, one that clearly said of course she was, and that this wasn’t the time to be asking stupid questions. She continued her monologue without interruption just as Blackwall called his name.

The next pair of hands he grabbed tightened around his wrists immediately, Bea’s pale face nearly the same shade as the pristine snow around them, drained of all color by terror and fury. Blackwall hauled himself out after her and reached back for Cole as Bea’s eyes landed with a helpless dry sob on the scene in the valley below them.

“This is the last group.” Blackwall snapped, taking Varric’s place in the line. “Tell them to get the fuck out of there while they still can.”

Thank the fucking Maker for that. Varric twisted Bea away from the tunnel, but her hands dug more resolutely into his wrist. “Varric, please, please…”

“Bianca.” He snapped impatiently, trying to pry her nails from his skin as gently as he could. She didn’t need to beg him. He wanted her sister out of that hell just as much as she did. “That line to the Seeker still open?”

“Connecting.” Bianca chimed. Then her voice fell away, leaving not-quite silence in his ear instead. He could hear the crackling sound of flames, something else he couldn’t quite place, but no gunshots.

His stomach clenched but he tried to keep his face carefully blank. He didn’t need Bea panicking and darting back into the tunnels. “Seeker!”

No answer. Varric called out again. “Cassandra, can you hear me?”

His voice echoed back to him. Varric ripped one of hands from Bea’s grip, ignoring the bloody groves her nails left in his skin, and pressed his palm against his empty ear, trying to make sense of the sounds on the other end of the call.

Muffled voices. There were muffled voices, a woman and a man, but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t…

“SILENCE!”

Icy dread hit him like a brick wall and he didn’t keep the horrified expression from his face, he knew it by the way Bea raised her free hand to her mouth to stifle either a scream or a sob, Varric didn’t know.

What he did know was that voice, he knew it and he’d never forget it, not as long as he lived. He still conjured it in his nightmares and the terrifying, gruesome form it belonged to raving for an old god to smite them down. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, they killed him, banished him back to the afterlife they’d ripped him out of.

The sound of an impact, something soft against something hard, an involuntary gasp of shock and pain, all the breath leaving a small figure as something hit her, or threw her, or…

She’d made the same kind of sound when Varric tossed her on the bed, but it’d been softer then, a delighted huff of surprise instead of…

More muffled words, then a surprisingly sharp and clear retort despite the breathlessness of her reply. “I didn’t fucking take…”

“She’s alive.” Varric ripped free of Bea’s other hand, digging for his phone, shouting out an order into the darkness. “Nightingale! Cameras in Haven, are any of them still working?”

“None! Not since the town lost power!” She cried back. “Varric, what…”

He didn’t bother to answer. He needed his shotgun, didn’t know where he’d thrown it. He had to go back, had to get to her, because there was no other voice on that line but Maria’s, and she was alone, alone facing a monster they let loose into the world.

The first scream through his earpiece nearly tore a matching one from him, although his was born of frustration and hers from whatever that gigantic piece of blighted trash was doing to her. Each scream crested higher, screeching more desperately, wordless agonized howls into the night that Varric was shocked nobody else could hear. He knew she couldn’t hear him, knew it was hopeless, but he called her name anyway. “Maria! Maria!”

This, at least, got the attention of both Blackwall and Sera. They whirled to him, confused and concerned. He met their eyes with a mixture of both panic and dread.

“They’ve got her.” Blackwall guessed with a growl.

Not they, he, and he was killing her, Varric was listening to her die, her screams tapering out into wrenching, exhausted sobs. “We have to go back.”

They’d never make it. He saw the thought reflected in all their faces, and yet he could see the determination follow it. Blackwall turned to push back through the rest of the refugees, his hulking form prepared to shove back into the tunnel.

Varric heard the rumble in his earpiece first. A great explosion of cracking stone and imploding rubble. It echoed, not just in his head, but across the valley and into the mountains. Varric turned, helpless, to stare down at the burning ruins of Haven.

And the smoking pile of rubble where the chantry stood.

“No.” Bea choked on a sob, swaying where she stood, “No, no, no, no…”

Varric reached forward to catch her, helpless to do anything else.

They couldn’t go back through the tunnels. They couldn’t get to her. The sound of silence echoed in his earpiece.

“Maria?” He whispered.

But she couldn’t hear him and he couldn’t save her.

It was like breathing in glass and fire, the smoke searing her lungs, the lingering pain turning each gulp of air into a hiccup. Tears, ugly, bitter things, stung her cheeks. She wanted to curl into a ball, exhausted and limp, the racking memory of pain still unbearable.

She wanted to beg for him to stop, but she never begged Dwyka. She wouldn’t plead with this monster either. She could see the outline of the chantry, so close and so far away. She’d never make it into the tunnels, never get out of here past this monster and his dragon, but she could make sure nobody else would either. Her shaking fingers dove into the pocket of her coat and caressed the cold switch. All she had to do was flip the top of it off, then press the button.

It was easy, even if she couldn’t catch her breath. She felt it work in the way the ground shook, the sound of the explosion. She saw the great, grand stone building buckle in on itself, collapsing effortlessly with a rumble that felt like one of the mythical titans finally laying down it’s burden and going to sleep.

The monster grabbed her arm and wrenched her back off the ground, not the whole way into the air, but enough to cause another startled, painful cry. Something pulsed beneath her skin, something frightening and agonizing. A dark, violet bruise bloomed in the palm of her hand and he scowled before dropping it. “As I thought. The spell is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

He twisted from her in disgust, through tear filled eyes she saw him reach a skeletal hand out to the dragon. It reached out for him in return like a monstrous cat it’s master. Maria felt sick, felt weak, felt so frightened she could hardly move. Still, she dragged herself up from the snow, near doubled over, staring at the monster.

“I will find another way.” The creature muttered to himself, dark and foreboding. “But I will not have a false prophet as a rival. You must serve as an example of what happens to those who would link themselves to the gods of old.”

She was going to die. The knowledge settled over her with an air of finality. Maria Cadash was going to die here in the ruins of the town that took her in and paid the price.

At least it wasn’t Bea or Cole. At least it wasn’t Varric. And maybe, maybe Bull would survive. They’d all be okay, except for her. And that, too, was okay. She should have been dead a long, long time ago.

Maybe she’d see Fynn again. Maybe he’d forgive her.

“I’m not afraid.” She lied through her teeth. She wouldn’t admit it, not to this monster, not to the universe that waited for her demise with baited breath. “Do it. Fucking do it.”

The mad, eerie grin he turned on her made her blood run to ice. His mocking, harsh laughter made her knees weak. He lifted his arms to the ruins of Haven and grinned down at her. “I have seen your nightmares, false herald. I know what frightens you.”

She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t afraid, she wouldn’t allow herself to be, but the corpse continued to talk. “You fear you’ll find your ancestors in the dark, and they’ll know you for a thieving whore. You fear their disgust when they know what you’ve done. And worse, you fear it was all for not, that you’ve failed, Maria Cadash. And you have.”

His grin stretched his face grotesquely. “Perhaps most charming of all, you fear dying in the stone that claimed your hapless ancestors, buried and forgotten.”

Her skin prickled and she shook her head in denial, in vehement protest, but it was too late. The wraith-like figure vanished into the open wings of the dragon. Then the great beast itself sprung from the ground, lifting into the smoky sky above them. She could barely make it out as it flew over her head, leaving her alone in the rubble.

For a moment, she thought she survived. For a second, a shining second, she nearly laughed in relief and tried to remember where Cassandra’s phone had vanished to. She could call for help, she could…

Then she saw the dragon flying to the Eastern mountain, saw it’s great maw open, heard the whoosh of flames. Saw the blizzard it kicked up with wings and claws. At first, she didn’t understand. She watched, confused and dazed, exhausted and numb.

By the time she understood, it was too late, although she’d never had a chance to begin with. She was simply a dwarf, a woman, and she wasn’t made to survive monsters and demons.

The snow was beginning to roll down the mountain and the dragon screeched, taking off into the sky. The first gentle shifting became a raging torrent, the avalanche forming as she watched, heading straight for what was left of Haven.

She’d be buried. Buried just like her ancestors.

She could barely move, the pain making her limp like an old woman, but she twisted and began to run, even if it was helpless. Even if she knew she couldn’t survive. She wouldn’t go down without trying, wouldn’t lie down and make it easy like her father had. She owed Bea and Bull that, at least.

The roar grew louder, closer, and Maria stumbled in the slush, her aching hand in the snow. She could feel the approaching mountain in her teeth, feel the ground trembling beneath her. She scrambled to get back up, the very earth fighting her, as if it was opening up beneath her to swallow her whole.

Then she fell into the abyss. Fell into the darkness of her ancestors’ tombs.

They were helpless to do anything but watch. Helpless to do anything but witness the fires of Haven snuffed out in a sea of white far beneath them. Varric strained to see a small form in the chaos, a flicker of life struggling before being snuffed out, but it was his writer’s heart that tried to convince him that she could have outran the avalanche the dragon called down, could have slipped out of that demon’s grasp.

Maria Cadash hadn’t been delivered to them by Andraste, because if she had then the Maker would have plucked her from danger. She hadn’t been a fairy tale heroine, because if she had then Varric would always have written her victorious and safe.

She’d been a woman, bright and brilliant, soft and sad, fierce and furious. For a brief period of time, she’d been perfect. She’d been untouchable. For a second, she even could have been his.

Then she was gone. In a few, brief seconds, she was gone. Her life cut short. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t enough.

“Connection lost.” Bianca notified him softly, her voice almost gentle in his ear. He couldn’t bear to listen to it, reached up to pull it away as he stared at the pristine valley below, looking untouched by humans and battle. A grave for their fiercest warrior.

“If I’m still broadcasting…” Harding’s voice shook. She had her phone clenched in trembling hands, aimed not at her face but at the valley below. “If anyone is listening, Haven has been destroyed. Maria…”

Harding’s voice cracked and she coughed, pulled herself together just enough to finish the sentence. “Maria Cadash, recently known as the herald of Andraste, is believed dead along with countless others who perished to save innocent civilians.”

The words broke the silent, terrible spell over them. It was Bea’s keening wail that shattered the horrifying quiet like a bullet, her wrenching sobs too loud, too painful, too desperate to ignore. Maria’s sister pitched forward in the snow, falling to her knees and shaking her head in denial.

Varric couldn’t even look at her without a surge of guilt threatening to send him crashing to the ground beside her. It was Sera who fell beside Bea, folded her into her too long, too skinny arms and rocked back and forth as Bea sobbed like a broken, wounded animal, her sister’s name the only thing coherent in the words spilling from her mouth.

Varric left her even though he knew what she faced. Left her like a coward. Left her to die alone.

Hell, he’d been the cause of it. The fucking red lyrium he found, the monster he helped release back into the world. His actions, if you followed them back to Kirkwall, were the ones that led them here. Led them to Maria Cadash entombed in the ruins of Haven with countless others while he watched impotently.

He thought he was going to save her. He could almost laugh at the audacity if he’d ever laugh again. He’d fooled himself into thinking he wasn’t dangerous, but he should have known better. Her blood wasn’t on the templars’ hands, wasn’t on Dwyka’s.

In the end, Varric Tethras killed Maria Cadash and he could never forgive himself.

The footage from Haven vanished. The last choppy, horrifying moments, a reporter’s garbled voice saying Maria Cadash was dead. The two Hawke sisters sat, twisted together, on Sebastian’s overstuffed couch. Hawke could feel Bethany’s hand shaking within her own. A different reporter appeared on the screen, a pale woman who looked as horrified as they felt.

“Varric was not in the valley.” Fenris growled from his spot behind the couch. Hawke felt his fingers dig into the overstuffed leather. “I saw him beside the reporter. He is unharmed.”

Thank Andraste for small miracles, Hawke guessed. The bitch couldn’t pull one out of thin air for her damn herald, of course, but at least Varric…

“Bianca.” Hawke called out, her voice tight in the terrible, heavy silence. The light on her phone flashed blue in acknowledgement. “Can you connect us to our favorite dwarf?”

“Connection impossible.” The AI’s voice drifted out of the phone’s speaker. “Cellular coverage has been disrupted and the local program has not established an alternate method of connection at this time.”

Varric hated being disconnected. He’d fix it as soon as he could, but who knew when that would be. Until then…

Varric was alright. And Varric wasn’t alright. She could feel it in her bones. She slipped from the couch even as Bethany tried to pull her back down. Fenris intercepted her before she could make it back to the little card table in the corner. “Stop this.” He demanded tersely.

“I love it when you’re bossy.” She muttered more out of habit than anything else, sidestepping him easily. He had the good sense not to try and physically stop her, but he shadowed her regardless with a scowl. She placed her palms on the table and leaned over it, nauseous and helpless, glaring at the cards staring up at her.

Death and the Hermit. She couldn’t pull anything else and hadn't been able to all day. She swiped them back into the deck mechanically. Fenris placed his hand on the small of his back, leaning over her form to whisper in her ear. “There is nothing you could have done. You know this. Don’t be foolish.”

She leaned into his touch for comfort and reassurance in spite of herself, eyes closing. Foolish. Was it really so foolish to hope that something good could have come through all this? Had it really been so naive to wish…

She slammed her open palm down onto the table and the cards went flying. She bit back a broken sob of outrage, of terror. If the templars had begun taking red lyrium, not only had they killed Varric’s pretty herald, but Hawke’s family would never be safe. They’d never stop hunting her, never stop…

“Oh.” Bethany’s soft exclamation broke through her scattered thoughts and made both her and Fenris turn to look. Bethany stood, in sweatpants and a too-large shirt, the cards scattered around her feet. They all landed face down in nearly a perfect circle, their elaborately designed backs identical and indistinguishable.

All of them face down except, of course, one. One that landed nearly perfectly in the center of the mess.

It was the brightest of her cards, the most brilliantly colored. A woman with hair of red, oranges, and yellows standing tall, one hand extended above her head, eyes closed.

In her palm, she held the sun.

Everything shifted. The universe tilted precariously on its axis while they stared at the card.

“Oh.” Hawke echoed Bethany, looking up to meet her sister’s eyes. They stared at each other while Hawke listened to the voices, suddenly so much louder, clamoring in her prophet’s skull. Sometimes she could nearly make sense of them. This, this…

There was a picture burning in her mind. Vague, indistinct, colors shifting and boiling as she tried to make sense of them. A flash of red, blinding sun on white snow, a cheer, a song, a small woman on the edge of the abyss lit up from within, sunlight pouring from her veins, ambition turning her into the sun, turning her into gold and crimson.

The Sun. The fucking Sun.

“This wasn’t destruction.” Hawke smiled, a slow, tenuous thing as she stared at the cards. This was collapsing. This was crumbling, a star from a black hole. A phoenix rising from the ashes.

It was rebirth.

#fanfic #dragonage #dragon age #varric tethras #varric romance #inquisitor #dwarf inquisitor #inquisitor x varric #inquisitor cadash #dragon age inquisition #dai #in your heart shall burn #modern thedas #modern magic

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