#but he also marks people with standardized scars for certain wrongdoings

[creature-once-removed]

another thing about me is all my worldbuilding will be horrific for two reasons

1. The Trauma

2. I use words in a way that always borders on awful puns

the horrific thing is that these two always come together. so there will exist a horrible torment nexus, and its name will be a pun.

[anntoldst0ries]

shinrin-yoku (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr Noelle Valentine) Word Count/Rating: ~1.7k, PG Summary: When life's difficulties hit, Noelle navigates her way through them by turning to the nature. Category: Hurt & Comfort Warnings: mentions of trauma

A/N: May is a Mental Health Awareness month and here in the UK the theme is nature. My MC, just like me, runs to the woods when things get tough. It helps her clear her head and reconnect with inner strength.

I struggle with mental health myself and it’s important for me to speak up and address the subject. There is nothing worse than shaming or discrediting someone’s difficult feelings. It’s fine not to be fine.

If you struggle alone, please don’t. My inbox will welcome you with open arms. Two heads are better than one, even if we just complain, at least we can complain together 💜

For @choicesmaychallenge2021 Day 13 - Mental Health

SHINRIN-YOKU - A Japanese term for ‘forest bathing’ or the sense of well-being you experience while in nature.

~~

It all starts with a seed. This tiny element which, without aid, is sentenced to certain death. But give it the right soil. Give it water, sun. And it can grow. Into something big. Powerful. Scary.

~~

She is five years old.

They live in a townhouse, a classy Victorian era building. Undistinguished, one of many merging into the background of a typical London street. The colors are also very standard,  dirty white married to ivory beige, bar for the deep green door - their rebel child.

For the random passerby, it’s nothing special. But for her, the walls of a storey house encapsulate the whole world.

The garden behind the house is neat and clean, visibly well taken care of. She doesn’t remember exact details anymore, but she remembers begging her parents to go camping in the garden with her brother. The ticklish feeling of long and slim blades of grass on her tiny feet. Looking at the stars with pure awe and delight, that only the unspoiled mind of a child is capable of.

The plot of land that the house has been built on borders a beautiful forest. A wooden fence separates the two.

To her, it’s a passage to a magical world.

A world without any particular order, living its own life, unconstricted by rules. Not in the slightest does it resemble the garden on her side of the fence, where things grow according to the rules laid out by the adults.

There is a feeling inside her that she’s too young to name, to throw it in lingual context. It’s not until years later that she realized what it had been. Freedom. To grow however you please. To be what you want to be.

Robust, effuse trees tower over her, making her feel so small. As if she hasn’t already been feeling small enough, living in a world full of giants.

But they mean something else too. They bring a secret and a promise. Promise of a bigger world out there, far from the confines of the place she calls home.

The forest draws her, singing a melody that only her heart can understand. One day, she will be a part of it.

~~

She lives the teenage dream life.

That’s what everyone says.

She doesn’t have any real problems. She’s lucky not having to worry about money. She’s got friends. Her family is great. She just needs to stop whining. Her life is perfect.

Their words, not hers.

None of them know what happens behind closed doors.

The childhood forest is a cloudy memory. Her home is now thousands of miles away, in a city with a giant red bridge, which for some bizarre reason has ‘golden’ in its name.

But the call from nature doesn’t care about distance. It can find you about anywhere. It’s different and yet the same.

Because nature beats in one rhythm and speaks in the same language, everywhere.

The morning is chilly and humid. She’s wearing a wooly coat, carelessly threw on a pair of PJs hiding underneath.

Her steps are brisk, breathing short and heartbeat elevated. Something’s bothering her blanched face.

The voice, again.

When it first appeared, she thought it had her best interest at heart. Used to give her advice and like a good friend, ream her out when she did something bad.

Over time, things took a turn for the worse.

Snarky comments. Casually mentioned wrongdoings. Feedback on what she could have done better, differently.

Noelle hoped the voice would go away on its own.

It hasn’t.

Not only did the voice not go away, but it was actually growing stronger with each passing day. Became more vocal. Judgmental. Openly hostile.

It fed on her fears.

It’s your fault - it told her - that your parents are getting divorced.

You are not good enough.

Even a lie, repeated enough times, will finally become the truth. And so it did for her, to the point where she couldn’t distinguish her own voice from the voice of the tormentor. Sounds faded into one.

Whoever said words can cut like a knife was right. But those who knew thoughts could leave scars that are much deeper, were truly wise.

The young, beautiful girl who never hurt a soul, became a hostage. A prisoner locked in the jail of her own head.

A giant tear rolled down her face. Made of all the words her heart couldn’t say.

She hugged the tree tightly and inhaled the woodsy aroma, the scent filling her lungs fully.

It’s sensuous.

Just like that, she is small again.

~

She’s got all that she ever wanted.

Degree from one of the best medical schools. Graduating with honors and glowing recommendations from even the strictest professors, who kept assuring her that her future in medicine is so bright it’s actually blinding. Then, a dreamy residency in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country.

Pretty impressive, right? Even a fool could see that. But the only fool whose opinion she cared about, couldn’t. All these things were clearly not good enough for Ethan Ramsey to stay.

She wasn’t good enough for him to stay.

Not longer than a year ago he was just a concept, an ideal without a face, body and voice. To her, he was a celebrity, a hero, someone whom mortals don’t have access to.

It was preposterous to consider for even a second Dr Ramsey could actually see something in an intern.

Standing among the moss-covered trees, every fiber of her being was filled with the thought of him.

Did the Amazonian forest remind him of her, just like every forest around reminded her of him?

Just when she won the battle for her career, she lost another. Because life had to be a zero-sum game.

As painful as that would have been, she wished she had something to hold onto. A scene she could replay in her mind. An image of him walking away. Or saying goodbye.

But he left without a word.

That was the pattern. That was history repeating itself.

She took her shoes off and stepped on the soil frosted with morning dew. It’s cold and wet. It’s refreshing. She is grounding. Reconnecting with Earth.

Tunes in with the rivers of grass, towers of trees, fences of bushes.

If the trees could speak, they’d tell stories not many people would believe in.

Tales of heartbreaks. Parables of spirits.

They are all nature’s poems.

Hauntingly beautiful. Riveting. Written without a single word.

Because nature speaks its very own language that only the soul, not the mind, can understand.

Pain is ripping her apart. But it reminds her that she’s alive. And this, in itself, is a miracle.

~~

She doesn’t know who she is anymore.

Some people call her a survivor. But it doesn’t feel like the right word. So many things in her died. So much was lost.

The attack took a lot from her. Danny. Bobby. Sense of security. Identity. Direction.

Right and wrong, good and bad, righteous and vicious. These are all just words. Someone needs to come and teach her the meaning of them anew. Draw lines, mark out frontiers. Save her from herself.

The ground is soaked. Torrential rain turned the soil into soft mud, warm and easily slipping through her fingers. She falls on her knees, praying for the ground to consume her.

Fill every part of her. Silence the internal cacophony. To sink into oblivion.

Not many people knew about the panic attacks and recurring nightmares. They’re always the same.

She’s standing in the middle of a swamp. Danny and Bobby are drowning, their arms reaching out for her. She knows she can only save one of them. She runs out of time trying to figure out how to save both. As a result, they both die. Time stands still and yet everything is spinning, moving, racing. The reality is a riot of overbright colours.

Suddenly, a ring breaks the silence. A polyphonic intruder. She looks at the screen through hooded eyes and notices the caller’s name. It’s him. He’s petrified. Worried to death. Asks her to stay where she is.

Some time later, maybe 10 minutes, maybe an hour - who knows? - he emerges from the gathering of stocky oaks.

The moment he catches the sight of her, he starts running. She notices a lab coat underneath the jacket. He’s soaking wet.

Even though he is so close, he doesn’t slow down. Crashing into her, he scoops her in his arms. Catches her in the tightest of embraces.

Asks her if she’s fine. No. Not that question again. She’s tired of people fussing over her and gets angry.

Had it not been for the attack, would he even be here? The voice asks mockingly. It doesn’t matter to her. He’s there now.

Deep baritone is gentle and full of concern. It’s not like that. It’s not his intention to fuss. He’s simply worried. Because she is the most important thing to him in the whole world. Yes, he wasted so much time. That’s why he refuses to lose even one more second.

A dam breaks within her. Eliciting a quiet sob. She clutches his shirt, holds onto him for dear life. Moments later, she’s screaming at the top of her lungs. Singing her poignant birdsong.

How is she supposed to cope? Will things ever go back to normal? What is normal anyway?

In the confines of the infamous patient room she never felt more scared in her life. But here, out in the open, she feels so safe. As if she’s had a silent agreement with nature, which vouched to protect her at all costs.

And this time, nature had an ally. Because Ethan will protect her, even if it’s the last thing he does. Holding onto each other, they stand in the nothingness.

It keeps them grounded. Connected to their roots. Turning over new leaves. Bending before they break. Growing.

They get lost. Mother Nature has a reward for those who do. They have a chance to find themselves. Over and over again.

~~~

If you made it this far - thank you & you're awesome 🥰

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[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

Nostalgia [Equilibrium, Chapter 1]

First chapter of the multi-chapter fic I’ve been writing about Emma and Lux, and their time with the Inquisition.  It’s long, so there’s a cut.

AO3 link

It occurred to Lux, as he shivered relentlessly while lugging the small pile of firewood he’d gathered through the snow back towards camp, that he had not entirely thought this through.  

Staring southward at the greenish-tinted remnants of the hole in the night sky over where Haven used to be, he attempted to remind himself why he had insisted on this journey to find the Inquisition’s new fortress in the first place.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been perfectly happy in the Free Marches, occasionally adventuring across Thedas, discovering bits of it old and new, and eliminating any slavers encountered along the way.  After hearing of the attack on the Inquisition’s former base, and seeing the aftermath of what the Venatori cultists did in Redcliffe, however, it seemed like the most logical course of action.  

Worthy cause or no, he was ill-suited to cold, harsh climes such as this, no matter how many extra furs he piled on - and piled them on he had.  They were called the ‘Frostback Mountains’ for a reason, he supposed.  At any rate, it was no longer an option to turn back, and his companion back at camp had been difficult enough to convince that this journey was worthwhile in the first place that she would never let him hear the end of it if he complained.  So, he hugged the twigs and branches closer to his chest and trudged on in silence.  

By all accounts, and to his immense delight, Lux was, in fact, a rather comely young elf: he was thin and reedy, doe-eyed and olive-skinned, with straight coal-black hair cut close to the skin everywhere but the top of his head, where it was left shaggy and fell slightly in front of his face.  ‘Unmistakably Tevinter’, he’d been told on numerous occasions, although it wasn’t always a compliment.  A large scar crawled across his left cheek and his right ear had been crudely docked, its characteristic point shorn off long ago as punishment for some trivial transgression he had since forgotten.  He found a strange comfort in that, having forgotten.  

At that particular moment, however, he was hoping less for emotional comfort and more for a fire to suddenly appear and swallow him whole, so long as it meant he was out of this blasted cold.

Although it hadn’t been a terribly far walk, Lux heaved a winded sigh of relief as he crested a small hill and the dwindling campfire came into view, and his companion’s lean, muscular frame coalesced on a large rock nearby.  She never really sat so much as she perched, comfortably at rest but able to return swiftly to her feet if need be.  Presently, she had one leg curled under her body, the mug of tea he had made her before he left still resting on that knee.  The other dangled off of the rock, the toe of her boot rhythmically kicking at the snow on the ground.  

She lifted the steaming mug every few kicks, sipped gingerly, and set it back on her knee in a smooth, graceful motion while remaining focused on something in her lap.  The firelight danced off of the bits of her face not covered by a brown, fur-lined hood, and her thick mess of unruly deep red curls hung loose in an opaque curtain to obscure whatever it was that held her attention.  

Emma Grace Sparrow entered his life eight years ago at what he was certain at the time would be the end of it, and entirely by chance.  

Following a daring and bloody rescue from the all too common fate of elven Tevinter slaves, being sacrificed for blood magic, and a narrow escape from Minrathous, Emma, albeit reluctantly at first, allowed him to accompany her home and took him under her wing (a whimsical turn of phrase, he noted, given her name).  In the years that followed, the diminutive, taciturn apostate mage from Starkhaven became his protector, mentor, and, when the need for those passed, his very dearest friend.  

Lux thrived under Emma’s guidance, and for good reason.  The woman was a marvel.   She was nearly a decade his senior, absolutely brilliant, and simultaneously managed to be the kindest and most terrifying person he’d ever met.  She scarcely spoke, and smiled even less, but in all of their years together, she’d never once raised her voice to him, even when he probably deserved it.  She displayed such unwavering restraint and self-control that, had she not used magic to save him when they first met, Lux would likely have gone years in her company without the slightest hint that she was a mage at all.  

Emma held herself to a high standard in all things, and expected no less from him.  

Unwilling to waste time and breath, she had a particular talent for saying a great deal with very few words, and over the years Lux had learned to understand her well.  It was probably his favorite thing about her; after all, how else could he have learned that Emma, for all her efforts at remaining objective and who would certainly never tell him outright, had a soft spot for him big enough to swallow all of Thedas?    

The thought crossed his mind briefly that they must have appeared a strange pair.  Lux was tall for an elf, where Emma was short for a human (he was endlessly amused by the fact that the top of her head was at the perfect height for him to rest his chin on it), and dark where she was fair.  He maintained a strong wit and healthy sense of humor, regardless of the marks his life in slavery left on him, and in stark contrast to Emma’s quiet, austere practicality.

He also made a point to rarely take anything seriously; the increasing frequency of her responding to his jokes with a smile, or even a chuckle, made the times she glowered at him in silence (which he found endearing anyway) worthwhile.

The elf continued to watch his friend as he set the wood in a neat pile near the fire.  He could see, now, that she was reading a book, although he didn’t know how, with those curls in the way.  She was strangely vain about her hair, despite it being quite impractically bothersome to keep it so long.  Lux often amused himself with the thought that her hair was the true source of her magical ability, and if it were ever cut short she would be rendered powerless.  It wasn’t true, of course, but he liked the story, and it explained why the only time he had ever really felt he was truly in danger from her was the time he jokingly threatened to cut her hair off in her sleep.        

Lux managed to pry his attention away from her with the rationalization that she often brought a book or two on long trips, and turned instead to his pack, which he’d rather made a mess of when he made her tea.  He dug through it for a few minutes, and then became concerned when his journal was nowhere to be found.  

Once he learned to read on his own, rather than having Emma read to him, Lux developed a voracious appetite for it.  After devouring every book he could get his hands on, he got it into his head to try writing his own.  The journal was an encouraging gift from Emma before they left Starkhaven.  He’d spent an hour or so scrawling in it each night, immortalizing, with some artistic embellishment, of course, the story of his life since meeting her.  He was clearly no Varric Tethras, with whose literary works Lux was particularly and hopelessly enamored, much to Emma’s dismay, but he liked to think he could at least do that story justice.  

He frantically searched under and around the pack, his clothes, then inside the tent, before he finally gave up and returned to the fire to ask Emma if she’d seen it.  Just as he was about to open his mouth, she tossed the wall of hair to the side and he could plainly see the small, leather-bound book she’d been reading.

His journal.

“Hey, snoop!” he protested facetiously.  

She didn’t startle, much to his dismay, although he had to admit that the most likely result of successfully scaring her would probably not be pleasant.  Only her eyes left their former position as she glanced up to meet him; their movement was controlled, deliberate.  She did not snap the book shut quickly in a wordless admission of wrongdoing, but rather returned her attention to it and continued reading, as if he weren’t even there, turning the page with the utmost fluidity.  

“Hush, Lux,” she replied, without looking up.  Her voice was soothing and quiet, flecked with the remnants of a Starkhavener’s accent.  Even if he were actually angry with her, he would have ceased to be the moment she spoke.  It had to be some sort of sneaky magic she used - she vastly preferred using magic for subtle things most people would never notice to throwing fire and lightning - but he enjoyed listening to her talk so much that he didn’t care.  

“That’s not for you,” Lux snatched the book from her and cradled it to his chest with an exaggerated frown.  Emma’s brow relaxed as her eyes followed the book, and the corners of her mouth tugged ever so slightly outward into a kind smile.  

“That is very well-written,” she offered, nodding her head towards his prize. “I’m impressed with your improvement, and I’m quite honored you’ve chosen to write so well about me.”

Lux scoffed nervously.  “About you?  What are you talking about?  It’s not about you.”  She raised an eyebrow incredulously.  Blasted woman always knew when he was lying.

“Your heroine is named ‘Jemma’.”  

He met her accusing stare with one of his own, and some colorful Tevene muttered, hopefully inaudibly, under his breath.  Making up names was certainly not his greatest strength as a writer.

“Fine.  Maybe it is, but you still weren’t supposed to read it yet.”  Lux folded his arms indignantly across his chest.  “I’m never going to be able to surprise you with anything, am I?”  Emma smirked and shook her head, then shifted to the side on the rock, tilting her head slightly to invite him to sit.  He did, and tossed the book on his disheveled pack as he stepped over it.  

“I meant it, Lux, it’s a good story.  You flatter me,” she said kindly as she removed her worn brown cloak and offered it to him.

“I try,” Lux replied with a grin.  Emma’s smile widened and she chuckled softly.  Her cheeks did not flush as he had hoped they would, but he was happy to have gotten her to smile enough to bare her teeth.  It wasn’t an easy task, but he was up for the challenge; she was really quite beautiful when she did it.  He took the cloak readily, as it was sure to be pleasantly warm, and wrapped himself tightly in it.  

“I wasn’t gone that long.  How far did you get?”

“Rux and Jemma just escaped Binrathous.”  

Lux winced; hearing his awful attempts at naming spoken aloud, even in her soft, lilting tone, was physically painful.  Blessedly, she didn’t laugh at him, only maintained her gentle smile.  She’d read most of it, then, but it was hardly a surprise.  He could only dream of being able to read as quickly as Emma did.  

Suddenly, her hand flew to her forehead, and her expression momentarily shifted into a pained grimace.  Lux felt a split-second stab in the pit of his stomach as he recalled the first time the intense headaches she suffered, had suffered for years before they met, overwhelmed her, his sympathetic pain relieved a moment later by the memory of her gratitude the first time she realized the tea he made, a simple brew he learned from one of the kitchen slaves, was the only thing that would consistently alleviate them.  She took a long sip from her mug, and her face relaxed once more.  She had a frustrating tendency to hide how much pain she was really in, though, and Lux worried for her.

“They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”  He leaned forward, trying to get her to look at him.  She hated when he tried to play mother hen and would undoubtedly tell him it was nothing to worry about, but she would only look at him when she said it if it were true.  Predictably, she pointedly avoided allowing her eyes to meet his.  He pursed his lips fretfully.

“Don’t concern yourself.”  Of course she would say that.  He moved again, his face closer to hers this time so as to dominate her field of view.

“That’s a yes, Emmi.”

She finished the rest of her tea in one swig, then turned her head and smirked.  “It’s a ‘don’t concern yourself’, Lux.”  

Lux laughed despite himself, and shoved her gently with his elbow.  Emma had mastered a precious few jokes since he’d known her, and that particular one by accident; the first time she’d said such a thing, she was being completely serious, but Lux was in tears with laughter.  

She smiled fondly and snaked her arm under the cloak and around his, clasping their hands and resting her head on his shoulder.  It was a recent and welcome development that she no longer shied away from such gestures.  He knew she cared greatly for him, against her better judgment, and she was his dearest friend and heart’s sister, but Lux was certain she did it less out of a desire to show him affection than a characteristically pragmatic attempt to keep him warm.  Although, she had always shown her affection for him by making sure he didn’t die, so perhaps it was equal parts of both.  

Between them they had four layers of furs, and Lux wore three of them tucked under his leathers, as well as his and Emma’s long underclothes (although hers could hardly be considered ‘long’ on him), smalls, several pairs of his and Emma’s socks, thick boots, bracers, and both his and Emma’s cloaks.  He appeared almost the size of a lean, healthy human bundled up so, instead of the gangling, scrawny elf he was, but still, he shivered.  Emma’s small, wiry body was always unnaturally warm, perhaps as a side effect of her magic.  She was miserable in deserts no matter how she dressed, and only mildly chilly in what he considered unbearable cold with only her sleeveless leathers, unders, smalls, hooded scarf, a single pair of socks under her boots, wraps on her hands and forearms, and a single layer of furs, the last of which she only wore because it would’ve been quite a blow to Lux’s pride if he were to need all of them.   After a few moments of her leaning against him, Lux finally stopped shivering, and she sighed heavily as she pointed towards the book.  

“It pains me to think you still remember all of that so vividly.  Such horrors are better forgotten.”  Her tone was somber, mirroring her words more than she usually let it.  Lux shook his head solemnly before resting it on hers.

“You know I can’t.”

“It was a long time ago, Lux, and I’ve told you I am no hero to be worshipped.”  

He chuckled and shook his head.

“Of course you’re not. Those heroes have an unfortunate propensity for being dead, and you aren’t allowed to die,” he replied, tucking a few stray wisps of hair behind her ear, and he shifted his shoulders so that she lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “And I do not ‘worship’ you.  I simply recognize that without you, I’d be dead, and not a single person would have noticed or cared.”  

“And without you, I’d be dead, as well.  You know my circumstances at the time; who do you imagine I had left to mourn me?”  She always seemed to have a counterpoint at the ready when he spoke highly of her, and he hated it. They were equally alone in the world when they met, that much was true.  He had his doubts, however, that he had anything to do with her being alive.  Perhaps she meant the headaches, but he doubted they would’ve killed her, either.  In any case, she never gave an explanation for such assertions, and he knew better than to press her for answers she did not wish to give.

“You were the fool who bothered with saving me first, you know,” he said with an almost forced laugh.  After a moment, his expression grew severe.  “The years since I met you have been the best of my entire life.  I’ve been places and learned things I could never have imagined.  But, I was nothing before I met you, Emmi, and I was always going to be nothing.   You made me something.  That may not be that important to you, but I can’t ever let myself forget what you did for me, and what it almost cost you.  It’s too important.   You are too important to-”

“Pollux,” she interrupted with a sharp sigh, holding up a hand with her palm facing him.  Pollux servus Navalius was the closest thing Lux had to a full name, and Emma hated it.  “You ‘servus’ no one, Lux, not anymore,” she’d told him.  Now, she only called him Pollux when giving him a lecture, or otherwise being very serious, and she was very rarely more serious than when this subject came up.  He was brimming with self-confidence now, sometimes almost insufferably so, but he knew what he said about his old self and her influence on him was true.  He suspected she did as well.  Nevertheless, Emma was determined that he not feel beholden to her, and there was little he could do about it.  While it was usually possible to sway her given a good enough argument, on this she was always steadfast, so he simply huffed and waited for her to continue.  She reached her hand behind his head and pulled him closer to her, resting her forehead on his.  

“You were never ‘nothing’. That is what you must never forget.”  

Lux sighed, and wrapped one arm around her and hugged her tight.  Maker bless this silly girl, he thought.  Her commitment to improving his opinion of himself was admirable, even if all it really did was improve his opinion of her.  He had certainly done nothing to deserve such kindness.

“You’re going to have to stop being so good to me,” he joked.  “I’m going to end up spoiled rotten.”  

Emma smiled fondly and planted a soft kiss on his forehead before gently shoving him away.  

“You are far too insufferably grateful for that to be a legitimate concern,” she informed him.

Lux grinned mischievously as he stood, hugging the cloak to himself to compensate for the loss of her warmth.  “I suppose I best get some rest, since I’m sure you’re going to wake me absurdly early.  Again.”  Emma nodded, and stood as well to feed the fire.  The elf removed his leathers and furs and crawled into his bedroll inside the tent, piling the furs on top of him.  Emma followed shortly after, stripped down to her undershirt and leggings, and climbed into her own.  

She wouldn’t sleep for hours yet, but she would stay because he’d begun every night since they reached the mountains just fine, but had inevitably ended up huddled against her for warmth before morning.  She didn’t mind, but it was a matter of pride that he didn’t repeat the pattern.  He bolstered his resolve to remain on his side of the tent by nearly disappearing under the furs, only his eyes and nose visible as he turned to face her.

“So, we should reach Skyhold sometime tomorrow?”

“Provided we get a timely start, yes.”  She lay on her back with her hands behind her head, her hair bundled underneath it as a makeshift pillow, staring upward at the decidedly uninteresting ceiling of the tent.  Something was on her mind, he was certain of it.  She was hardly forthcoming with such things, but she would tell him if he asked.  He almost did, but thought better of it; her headaches were getting worse, and she was being rather melodramatic, at least for her.  Forcing her to talk about it now wouldn’t do any good.

It was already getting colder, much to his dismay.  He curled up his legs and pulled the furs closer.

“It’ll be interesting, I think, seeing what he’s really like.  The Inquisitor, I mean.”

“Very busy, more than likely.  I wouldn’t get your hopes up on meeting him.”  

Not what he wanted to hear, but, she was probably right.  

The Inquisitor, the fabled ‘Herald of Andraste’, was probably the aspect of the Inquisition she was looking forward to the least, not that she was particularly looking forward to any of it at all.  She was here because he wanted her to come, not because she did.  Emma despised the Andrastian Chantry, asserting that it was “the equivalent of making up a shoddy, half-hearted answer rather than admit you can’t be bothered to adequately consider the question”.  The Inquisitor’s fame and proximity to the Chantry made him uninteresting to her, but Lux was intrigued by the idea that an elf, someone like him, could be hailed by humans, elves, and dwarves alike as the last, great hope for Thedas.  

“Just a ray of sunshine, you are.”  He scoffed, trying to mask his chattering teeth, and inched closer to her, hoping she didn’t notice.   “It’s just nice hearing people - well, people other than you - speaking so highly of an elf, I suppose.”

“He could be Dalish, Lux.”

Lux’s nose crinkled.  He’d never gotten over the blatant dismissal as a ‘flat-ear’ he received from the first Dalish clan they’d encountered, and subsequent run-ins left him firmly entrenched in the opinion that the Dalish were a pretentious and rude lot.  The Inquisitor being one of them would be thoroughly disappointing.

“Why would you…you just had to ruin it, didn’t you?”  

Emma looked at him with a wry smirk and extended her arm towards him, and flexed her fingers as if to say ‘come on, just get over here’.  He grumbled in Tevene before heaving a sigh of defeat, and sheepishly moved next to her.  She folded her arm around his head as he laid it on her shoulder, and gently stroked his hair as she went back to staring upward, clearly lost in thought.  He mused briefly on asking her about it again, but instead dismissed the idea and allowed himself to relax and drift off to sleep as the comical amount of furs piled on top of him trapped her warmth and finally halted his shivering.