#but he just remembers that solas was nice to him. and his aunt had been happy when they were together | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

5lazarus · 4 years

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Ligaments

Summary: Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” Warnings: Prisons, PTSD. Read on AO3 here.

“We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” Lavellan eyes her doubtfully. “He ripped my arm off, Leliana,” she says. “And you kissed him while you did it,” Leliana returns. The two women keep walking, and Lavellan casts a look behind her to see who exactly is following them. One of Leliana’s scouts tucks themselves out of view, just a fraction too late. She sees their shadow, and smiles. The elvhen district of Halamshiral, called the Dirthavaren, has recovered since Marquise Briala has taken the reins. News of her arrest has not yet left the palace. Even the Divine does not technically know: but Leliana has left off her hat today, and Leliana knows everything. The guards will descend upon Briala’s court in two days, unless they act, and Lavellan intends to act now. “I thought she’d trust me enough to tell me,” Lavellan mourns. “I understand the need for caution, but that she warned the Dread Wolf before me--” “She wanted him exposed,” Leliana says. “So Charter claims. If he did not act to help one of the last living hopes of Elvhenan, it would discredit him amongst his followers. And Briala is jealous of her recruits. I do not believe she thought he would act on this information.” She can play the Game as well as even the Marquise and the Dread Wolf, if not better. She is not in prison, and while some are calling her a living god, her people love her. Gaspard is holding the elves of Orlais hostage. She will not let them purge another alienage--she is playing to win. “She’s not dead yet,” Lavellan says. They reach the riverbank and turn onto the bridge where Charter said they’d meet. A man stands at the center, leaning on the railing. He gazes out onto the city, the Dirthavaren, the Promise. A seagull pulls inquiringly at his sleeve. Irritated, he brushes it away, and as the bird flies off with a squawk he turns around. Lavellan presses her lip into a thin line: Solas is still wearing the shirt her aunt made him. Solas, for his part, only flicks his eyes away and bows slightly. “Divine Victoria,” he says quietly. “Inquisitor. Thank you for agreeing to meet.” Leliana is staring at his feet. He is wearing shoes. Lavellan can see the wheels turning in Leliana’s head, and is looking forward to hearing her character assasination over a glass of wine, if Gaspard doesn’t kill them all first. They are relatively nice boots, well-worn, a bit muddy. It has rained recently, so that makes sense. Leliana will be able to tell her exactly where the mud comes from, of course, and if he’s killed anyone in their sleep recently, and exactly how often he cries himself to sleep, if he cries at all. Lavellan says, “Let’s leave the pleasantries aside, shall we? You know where Briala is being held. Her agents told yours--your singular agent, because recruitment isn’t going particularly well, is it?” Solas frowns and folds his arms. Rejoicing in his disapproval, Lavellan continues, “No matter--we have the schema of the palace. And my agents can get us in.” Specifically her mother-in-law can sneak them in, since she moved to organize Briala’s clerks in her court, and she is honestly looking forward to Manon taking the Dread Wolf’s measure. Leliana nudges her gently: play nice. “I have the clothes,” Leliana says. “The costumes, since we do all know how much you like to dress up.” A smile ghosts across Solas’ face. “I am quite curious to see how you’ll dress me.” “Not in a wig,” Leliana says. “Blond is not your color.” Both he and Lavellan laugh. Solas looks at her under his lashes, and Lavellan schools the smile off her face. She had been incredulous and delighted when Charter told them. He had clearly done it to make them laugh. He always liked to perform for her: likes, she thinks, he still likes to. She eyes him, considering. What is he getting out of this? Leliana thinks she can wheedle it out. “Let’s go,” Lavellan says forcibly. “We do not know how much longer we have, and I’d like to spare our sister as much suffering as we can. They only leave you alone the first day, to get you scared.” They torture the ones in the cells next to you, to set the mood. Lavellan brushes the gashes on her face, remembering, and then she makes herself stop. Leliana and Solas look at her, concerned. Irritated, she snaps, “Let’s go. We haven’t much time left.” They cross the bridge and leave the Dirthavaren behind them, and Leliana guides them to one of her many safehouses. She leaves them with their costumes and closes the door behind them. Solas says, “Alas, no wig. But she is right: blond is not my color.” Lavellan ignores him and strips out of her tunic. The servant’s dress is a bit hard to lace up, and the sleeve snags in the metal ligaments of her prosthetic. It tears. “Fuck,” she says, helpless. She counts: one, two, three, and breathes past it, and tugs her sleeve out. She stretches her metal arm out and splays the fingers. They’re too clumsy to do up buttons and tighten stays. She stands in her dress and waits. Solas silently changes his clothes. He keeps the wolf-bone necklace on. She catches him staring at her. “I don’t need your help,” she says. “I was not offering it,” he says mildly. Before Lavellan can snap back, Leliana returns with a tub of greasepaint. She eyes Solas and turns to Lavellan. Wordlessly, Lavellan turns, to get her to do up the back. Leliana buttons and ties her into the dress, and buttons her cuffs. “We’ll need to cover your scars,” she says. “And your vallaslin.” “Absolutely not,” Lavellan says immediately. Leliana says, “I understand your discomfort, but a Dalish elf with large gashes across her face is recognizable, no matter how nondescript we dress her. You are no longer invisible, Inquisitor. And we cannot afford to dawdle.” Lavellan says repressively, “Of course. Make it quick.” Leliana paints her face, and she is struck by how surreal her life has become. The Divine is painting over her vallaslin while the Dread Wolf watches. She glances at him, and to his credit he does not offer up a smile. He looks sad. He always looks sad. Leliana is kind enough not to offer her a mirror. She pulls out the map of the Winter Palace, and shows them the route they must take. Lavellan brushes against Solas’ shoulder as they lean in. Solas shies away. “You’ll enter the catacombs from here and walk along the aqueduct to Briala’s offices. Gaspard believes he has them sealed, but he does not know about the servants’ passageways within the very walls of the elvhen quarter of the palace.” Leliana traces her finger down the map. “Manon will meet you where the paths intersect under the Great Hall, and show you how to climb above to the cells.” Lavellan blinks. “So they keep the torture chambers right about the ballroom? How utterly Orlesian.” Leliana says, “It is quite a performance. Some dances are choreographed around the screams. No one knows quite where prisoners are held, of course. Or they pretend not to know. But others have broken free before, and I am confident that the two of you can move her out. And once she has claimed asylum with the Chantry, I can act, and charge Gaspard as an enemy of the faith.” “And then you will grant the petition of the Council of Heralds to let him free,” Solas says, “and put the Duke Cyril de Montfort in his place, who is less interested in wracking his country with civil war and pogroms and will stand strong against the Qun.” “Surely your distaste for the Qun isn’t the only reason you’re here,” Lavellan remarks. “And you have pretended at length not to care about what the People think of you. Since you do not think of us as people. What does Briala have on you?” “No good deed goes unpunished,” Solas says. “Perhaps I tire of wading through dead elves. A better world is coming. That does not mean I enjoy seeing our people suffer in the interim.” Lavellan exchanges a glance with Leliana. He has expanded his definition of personhood, but not by much. If the lives of the elves of Halamshiral were not at stake, she would hound him on that, and triangulate with Leliana--but there is no time for that. She does not take the bait. “Maker be with you,” Leliana says. She smiles oddly at Lavellan. “May the Dread Wolf never hear your step.” Lavellan laughs. Leliana pulls open the trapdoor, and they descend into the bowels of the city. The ladder is built into the stone, and it is wet and slippery under her hand. For once Lavellan is glad of the prosthetic. It steadies her down to the rushing river below, funneling the water that feeds the city. Solas waits for her at the bottom, hands glowing slightly. He has pulled a barrier spell right to the edge of the Veil, just in case. Silently she gestures to him to follow, and they hug the wall as they walk the narrow path towards the palace. Every twenty feet they come across a glowstone; Lavellan begins counting. Manon told her that she would reach the crossroads after the fortieth light. The water roars, the brickwork drips, and they keep walking. At the twenty-eighth glowstone, Lavellan says idly, “You shaved the beard.” “As you said, it was not a particularly compelling disguise,” Solas says. They have to shout to hear each other over the water, which is not a particularly good idea. They fall silent, and the corridor gradually widens over the water, which reduces to a quiet stream. Now they walk in step. They reach the fortieth glowstone and Lavellan stops. Her mother-in-law steps out of the shadows, carrying a lantern. She has more gray in her hair, Lavellan notes sorrowfully, and her mouth is pressed thin and tight. “Da’vhenan,” Manon says: child of my heart. “Why do I never see you unless there is a catastrophe?” “I’m making this one right,” Lavellan says. Briala will not die like Mahanon did: that goes unsaid. Manon examines Solas doubtfully and chooses supremely to say nothing. She turns her back to them and gestures to them to follow. “Where are the others?” Lavellan whispers. “Surely you’re not the only elf left in the palace.” “They have been encouraged to go home,” Manon says. “And the servants’ quarters have been locked. This was customary, of course, in Celene’s day. But I am glad you are here. Your life is considered so much less disposable than ours. If you fail, the shem will not torture you again, at least. But they’ll take it out on him.” “We will not fail,” Solas says. “I don’t find promises from the Dread Wolf particularly reassuring,” Manon says lightly. “I like it better when the gods keep silent.” Solas, amused, catches Lavellan’s eye, and Lavellan suppresses a smile. She does enjoy her mother-in-law. It is a shame only catastrophe brings them together: her husband’s death, the purging of the Dirthavaren, venatori in the Winter Palace, now this. “Don’t worry, Mamae,” Lavellan says. “I have it well in hand.” Manon leads them to a sloping stairwell and hangs the lantern at the entrance. She tells them to climb. They must follow the stairs along a steep curve along the dome of the Winter Palace ballroom. Briala is likely kept close to the top, behind a halla-locked door. Manon hands them a bag full of the statues they need. Solas shoulders it. There is only one way in, slithering between the ligaments of the Winter Palace. Lavellan flexes her prosthetic, arming her spirit blade. If they must they will fight their way out and leave no survivors. That is the Game: but it is so much more elegant to empty it, rather than leaving a trail of corpses to bloat the aqueduct. Lavellan hugs Manon tightly. “Stay safe,” she tells her. “Get out of here. Leliana will protect you. She’ll bring you back to Val Royeaux.” “My, my,” Manon murmurs. “The Divine’s protection. We really have risen in the world.” She pulls away from her and examines the greasepaint. “Don’t get caught. You don’t need any more unnecessary scars.” Stung, Lavellan draws back. Manon steps back into the shadows. Solas turns to her, concerned. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “I’m alive, her son is not. And she hasn’t seen her granddaughters since before the Conclave. It’s my fault.” “But she loves you,” Solas remarks. “‘Child of her heart.’” “And so do you, and that has not done me much good,” Lavellan shoots back. Solas’ face tightens in the shadows. “True,” he says. He reaches tentatively towards her. “You have been here before.” Lavellan breathes: one two three, in. Halt: one two three four. Out: one two three four, one long gust. “In a place like this,” she says. “Not here. In Val Royeaux, and then in Wycombe. And of course, you remember Haven.” She lets him take her hand and squeeze it. “We will leave this place whole,” he says. “A promise from the Dread Wolf,” Lavellan says. “Forgive me if I am not reassured.” Still she does not drop his hand, and they enter the stairway together. Their eyes adjust seamlessly to the dark. The smell is horrible and the heat atrocious. Still, they continue to climb, and Lavellan wonders what is happening below. Perhaps Duke de Montfort’s men have entered the palace by now. Perhaps Gaspard himself is pacing in circles, stroking his moustache as he prepares for the inevitable backlash. Perhaps the room is simply empty, and it is only full in the Fade, where spirits reenact Briala watching Celene die again and again. A low mumble sings between the bricks and plaster wall. Solas and Lavellan stop in unison. Lavellan drops his hand and rubs her head, suddenly fatigued. Pressure is building behind her eyes. “The song,” she says. “It’s red lyrium,” Solas says. “It should not be in Halamshiral.” “It’s a desecration,” Lavellan says angrily. “It should not be in the heart of what was once my people’s city.” Solas looks at her strangely. “On that, at least, we agree,” he says. “Let’s keep moving.” He waits for her to move in front of him. Lavellan rolls her eyes. She does not know if it because he does not trust her, or because he wants to make a show of protecting her back, or if he simply dislikes walking first into the dark--likely all three. But with evidence of red lyrium in the Winter Palace, Leliana now has enough to order Gaspard to stand down. The curve of the halls glow red as they continue upward, and the song grows stronger. Lavellan is sweating off the greasepaint. It is worse here than in Emprise du Lion; it is growing in the mortar between the bricks themselves in the worryingly empty cells. Solas says suddenly, “This is an experiment.” He stops, brow furrowed as he stares at the minuscule lyrium crystals between the bricks. “A foolish one, because it will eventually take down the roof.” They reach the top of the stairs, and Solas places the halla statues along the doorframe. They glow a sickly green, and the lock clicks. Lavellan charges her spirit blade and pushes the door open. Briala is chained to the wall, staring fixedly at a growth of red lyrium in the center of the room. It is pulsing up her chains, inching closer and closer to her wrists. She looks up and says, “Maker. Get me out of here. I cannot hear myself think.” Horrified, Lavellan hurries over and strikes off her chains. Briala crumbles to the floor. She picks her up. “Solas, her shoulders,” she says. “Her wrists!” Solas kneels next to her. Hands glowing a comforting green, he massages Briala’s shoulders back into place and heals the bruising the cuffs left on her wrists. Briala says, half-deliriously, “If you are the Dread Wolf and that is the Herald, what does that make me? The Arrow?” She rests her head on Lavellan’s shoulder. “Has he moved against our people?” “Not yet,” she says. “He won’t. I will not let him.” She looks at Solas over Briala’s head. He is staring beyond them, lost in a reverie. She shapes my love on her tongue and stops herself. “Solas?” she says instead. “We need to move.” He startles. “Yes,” he says. “Forgive me. Imprisonment is hard to bear.” They still, and Lavellan understands that all she has been through, her and Briala both, he has lived too. He touches her shoulder and helps her hoist Briala up, carefully skirting the red lyrium. Briala says, “They did something to my legs. Injected something. Poison, but they wanted the lyrium to eat me alive.” “So not so poisonous,” Lavellan says. “Lethallin, let me carry you.” Briala sags in her arms and carefully they maneuver towards the door. Solas walks down the slope first, drawing a barrier close to their side of the Veil. It drowns out the singing, but her head continues to pound. Briala’s breathing is practiced and even. She has been through this sort of pain before--but their people don’t rise this high without learning how to breathe pain to make it manageable, so that it doesn’t snatch at your very respiration, that you can have that much control over your body, even as it revolts from the inside. Lavellan does not let her thoughts lose her. Carefully and steadily, she steps through the prison and never loses her footing. They reach the end of the staircase and Solas fishes a healing potion from his pocket. Lavellan sets Briala down. Briala looks at Lavellan. She nods, and only then does Briala reach for it. Solas’ face is unreadable. Briala drinks. “My people,” she says. “Do they know?” “We’ve kept word from spreading,” Lavellan says. “Manon let us know.” “And your man let mine,” Solas adds. Briala grimaces. “A pleasant surprise,” Briala says. “I had assumed you would be too proud.” She looks at Lavellan sardonically. “He feel guilty that when he took the eluvians from us, he interrupted a supply chain to the ghetto in Jader. Babies and old men starved, because of the Dread Wolf. And of course, you cannot let Orlais fall to Tevinter and the Qun before you take the Dales, can you?” Solas says, “You have your life. Would you like to keep it? The more we dawdle, the more we risk discovery. Let us leave this place.” Lavellan picks up Briala. She murmurs in her ear, “Dead babies. Nice touch.” Briala seizes a second--the closest she can come to a laugh. They follow Solas’ light through the underbelly of the palace and back into the roaring aqueduct. Lavellan is panting heavily now, prosthetic digging into her skin. Briala tries to support herself and nearly falls into the water. Solas turns to watch as Lavellan shouts and grabs her back, both of them slipping to the ground. He does not offer them a hand up. Lavellan glares at him, covered in muck. She picks Briala back up. When it is clear they will not fall, Solas turns around and keeps walking. Lavellan tries to keep up, but her energy is flagging, and she falls behind. When they round the next bendSolas is gone, and while there are footsteps tracing a path through the muck into the catacombs of Halamshiral, Lavellan has neither the time nor the rage to follow. “Asshole,” Lavellan says. She steadies Briala on her back and climbs back into the light.

#ligaments #solavellan #action/adventure #solas #briala #lavellan #leliana #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #dai #post-trespasser #canon compliant

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heartslogos · 7 years

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newfragile yellows [262]

Sylaise’ knitting needles even sound furious as she rants, somewhat unhelpfully, while - much more helpfully - knitting Solas’ new daughter a blanket for the rapidly approaching winter, which, according to Dirthamen, is going to be a very, very harsh one.

Ghilan’nain, much more immediate in her helpfulness, is preparing dinner for the three of them as Solas attempts to burp his new daughter, who was named by group vote as Ellana.

Solas was going to call her Ellana anyway, he’s not certain why everyone felt it necessary to democratize the act. No one ever did that for any of Mythal’s children.

He’s certain that he’s never had this much trouble attempting to burp a baby before. Ellana makes displeased nnnnnnng noise against his shoulder as he walks her around the first floor of his house.

“Well, you certainly aren’t going to ban her from my house. And I’m not removing every spindle from my house in order to keep her in a bubble. Do you know how important spindles are? To - not just my magic, mind - to living? And this girl is going to need to know how to spin thread. This is a survival skill. No niece or nephew or whatever of mine is going to go into this world completely unaware of how to spin thread because her other aunt cursed her for half-baked reasons that most likely have to do with dramatic effect.”

Sylaise says the words dramatic effect like Solas says the words elder brother. Distastefully, at the tip of his teeth like that would make the words any less vile or repulsive, and with a great deal of disbelieving vehemence that such a thing could exist.

And yet Elgar’nan still breathes and remains stubbornly older than him, so. There’s that.

“The spindle part won’t kick in until she’s eighteen, you have time. Once she turns eighteen we’ll just…keep them out of the way and never let Mythal near her again. Because Mythal would definitely kickstart her own curse by taking a spindle and poking Ellana would it,” Ghilan’nain says as she checks in on the pot hanging in Solas’ fireplace and then goes back to chopping vegetables at his table. “I’m sure if the seven of us got together and focused very hard we could break Mythal’s curse.”

“You assume Elgar’nan would help,” Solas says.

“Elgar’nan would help,” both of his sisters chide, giving him disappointed looks as he passes. “He did attempt to stop Mythal in the first place. And he even showed up to give Ellana a gift of his own! And it was quite a nice gift.”

It was the power to command armies, what in the name of the Fade is an infant child going to need the power to command armies for?

Solas keeps these comments to himself and focuses on trying to settle the fussy baby in his arms. He’s never wanted a baby to burp over his back so badly before.

“I’m thinking more about the endgame of the prophecy. What kind of man is marble?” Ghilan’nain asks.

“Jun was copper,” Sylaise points out, “Elgar’nan was fire, and Mythal was sea-foam.”

“That’s different and it’s also bullshit,” Ghilan’nain says. “We need to think about who this man is and how we can get him here so he’s around when this happens so we don’t have to wait very long.”

“You want us to find a man made of marble sometime before the next eighteen years is up,” Sylaise repeats, “I’m sorry, littlest sister, are you insane?”

“Andruil and I will handle it.”

Sylaise valiantly holds back some sort of comment, Solas can taste it.

Ellana, finally, burps and Solas lets out a sigh of relief he did not know he had been holding as he gently passes her off to Sylaise and goes to help Ghilan’nain with dinner.

It was very nice of them to burst into his house and commandeer it in the name of helping him with his new cursed daughter. He appreciates it. Really. He’ll send a thank you note. Eventually.

Ellana dreams.

As she dreams, she walks around the ruins of the castle of her grandparents who she never met, in all of its half-restored glory and she watches the face of her father as he sleeps in the chair next to her bed and holds her hand and hopes.

Ellana dreams and she remembers every single word that she’s wrung out of each of her aunts and uncles and her own father about this event.

They had all known it was going to happen.

Ellana knows every detail of what must happen in order for her to wake up next.

She must find the man of marble. The marble man. The wording changes, and Ellana is not sure what it is supposed to mean. Is he a man of literal marble? Is this a metaphor? Some sort of poetic language?

Is it his demeanor that is marble? His skin? His body? His voice? What part of him is marble?

Ellana dreams and there is power in dreams because you do not need to follow logic in dreams.

So Ellana thinks, I want to find a person.

Ellana finds several people.

Ellana finds her brother, outside of the castle. Her brother, who is equally as cursed as her - though he has already lived through his portion of his curse, and through it has come to give her his own guidance, and she feels very sad that they had to lose each other again like this. She sees her once-cursed always-burdened brother sitting next to her favorite dog and she wishes that they would come inside.

Her father suffers with his hope very quietly and it would be nice for him to have a break from her unresponsive silence.

Ellana finds her Aunt Mythal, calmly drying herbs as she goes about her business, confident in her prophecies and actions.

She finds her aunts Ghilan’nain and Andruil, still tirelessly working in their efforts to find a man made of marble, a marble of a man, etc. etc.

She finds her Uncle Jun, fed up with the idea of finding something, and creating a man of marble for her. Ellana feels warm with this. But she does not think that this is where fate leads her.

She finds her Aunt Sylaise bitterly complaining to her uncles Dirthamen and Falon’din who scowl into their tea as they plot and think and try to out-clever their eldest sister.

And for a moment, she thinks, her Uncles see her too.

She sees her Uncle Elgar’nan, standing by himself at the top of a cliff, staring into the sunset. And he whispers, eyes narrowed, “You must cross the sea twice.”

Ellana listens.

Ellana dreams herself over the sea. Time passes differently for a dreamer. She lopes across the ocean in strange strides that leave her drifting and bouncing in the air for long stretches of time where the sun rises and sets dozens of times between the smallest movements of her fingers, and when the stars remain in place for her as she bounces over storms and waves.

The first time she crosses the sea, Ellana finds a boy and a girl who are bickering with a familiarity that makes her ache of her own brother. She sits with them, for a time - out of time -, and she gathers that they are nobles of some sort and the boy wants to be a knight and the girl is very sensible in that she wants a house of her own and none of that foolish adventuring business.

Ellana, unsure of what she is meant to find here, goes to cross the sea one more time.

She crosses again, further to the North.

And on a small island in water that is sometimes pale blue enough to see the white sand - pale enough to turn violet with bloodshed - and sometimes black enough to swallow ships, she finds a man.

He is much older than her, and he is definitely a man in the sense that he is older, wiser, and probably more aware of the world than she is. She would not call her brother a man. She would call this person one.

Though…Ellana is not sure if that this is the man made of marble. He looks big. He looks very powerful. And indeed, as she watches him swing a sword almost as tall as he is, and half as wide - which is very wide, the sword itself is larger than her own body -, he could be, metaphorically and poetically speaking, be said to have been carved from marble.

(He looks nothing like the man that her Uncle is carefully creating for her, she double checks this very quickly because in dreams you can be many places multiple times at once and it still makes sense.)

He does not feel like a man made of marble or a marble man or whatever combination of words any of her aunts and uncles felt like using at the time of the retelling.

But. Uncle Elgar’nan had told her to cross the ocean twice. And he is who she found when she crossed it the second time.

On the other hand -

This is a man fighting a war many oceans and leagues and lands away. What reason would he have to come and find her? What reason would he have to leave his war to wake her up?

Ellana watches this man for a very long time. She watches him suffer. She watches him laugh. She watches him think. She watches him heal. She watches him stare out into the horizon, the line of his mouth unmoving and flat and empty. She watches the wheels turn in his mind to some conclusion she isn’t sure on.

Ellana watches him for a very long time. She will come back to this man, eventually. If anything, because she is interested in why the First Child of the Sun would think to tell her to come here. Why did the Uncle Elgar’nan see him?

But she has her own life to lead, her own battles to wage, and her own things to ponder.

Ellana leaves the man, who’s name she has not learned - they call him Hissrad, sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes it is just numbers. And Ellana can learn numbers, but she does not like the concept of calling anyone a number. Nor does she like to think of him as Hissrad - because spending this much time here in what she has learned is Seheron has taught her some of the many languages being thrown around like knives, and she does not like what Hissrad is supposed to mean.

She does not think that this man likes it, either.

Ellana leaves this man and goes back to the first boy and girl she found.

If the marble man, man of marble, marble of man, whatever will not come to Ellana, she will go to him. And she cannot do that asleep.

What can she do in sleep?

She can dream.

Ellana dreams herself standing over Maxwell Trevelyan’s sleeping body and she touches his dream with hers.

“So. You want to be a knight?”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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heartslogos · 8 years

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send the morning [25]

The two elves look like they’re caught in an stare off. Varric isn’t exactly sure who’s winning, exactly.

“It would probably help if you didn’t look mad all the time, Mystery Man,” Varric says. “And, Chuckles, would it kill you to look less judgmental?”

“I can’t help how I look,” Lavellan responds. Solas raises an eyebrow.

“Forgive me, Varric, but my experiences with the Dalish as a whole haven’t been overly good. Perhaps today might be the day where, yes it does kill me.”

“Are you actually that angry, though?” Varric says to Lavellan.

“At some level, yes, I am always angry,” Lavellan says. The stare off presumably ends because Solas steps aside and Lavellan gives him a wide berth as he enters the hut to put down his small pack of stuff.

“How angry are you right now?” Varric asks. Lavellan’s response is a grunt.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Solas says giving a sardonic smile, “Is it because I’m the only other foreign elf in this village?”

“Sort of,” Varric says, “He insisted on a place where he could have a view of the forest.”

Solas’ eyebrows raise up. “He wanted a view.”

Varric raises his hands. “They wouldn’t let him camp at the tree line. Too suspicious, I guess. I think they want to keep an eye on him.”

“I understand wanting to be away and close to an escape route,” Solas says, “But a view?”

“You’d have to ask him about it. Should I leave you two to it? If I come back to visit will there only be one of you around and a suspicious mound of freshly turned dirt?”

Solas hums.

“That was meant to be an exaggeration.”

“Art imitates reality, and such.”

“Hey, we’re back,” Bull says, “What’s up? Sera said you needed to talk to me. Something wrong, Boss?”

Evelyn looks up at him. “Bull.”

He tilts his head, “Yeah? You alright? You look worried. More so than usual. Something happen while we were on assignment? As an aside - we found dragon tracks. I’m pretty sure if you don’t go for it that herah’s going to grab some guys and go herself.”

“Another one?” Evelyn shakes her head, “No, wait. That’s not what - don’t distract me. Bull, something has come to light that I need your help with.”

“Alright,” Bull sits down across from her, resting his arms on the table and giving her his full attention.

Before Evelyn can even start thinking about how to ask him if he’s seen Ellana in a courtship with anyone, the woman darts in through a nearby open window, looking around before darting over to them.

Ellana curls a hand around one of the leather straps that goes around Bull’s chest and tugs.

“Can it wait?” Bull says turning to her, “The Boss is trying to talk to me about something.”

Ellana continues to tug.

“It’s about Ellana, actually,” Evelyn says nervously picking at a hangnail. It’s a terrible habit that she’s gotten back into recently. She thought her tutors had beaten it out of her, but it turns out that she just wasn’t stressed enough for it to rear its head.

Ellana groans and hits her head against Bull’s shoulder.

Bull’s eyebrows raise.

Ellana leans in close to him and whispers something in his ear. Bull’s eyebrows raise further and he turns to look at her, “Well shit, kadan. Didn’t think that would happen. Sorry, I guess.”

Bull turns to Evelyn, “It’s me. The guy you’re looking for is me. I should’ve been more careful; I didn’t think it’d be that big a deal.”

Ellana sits next to the Iron Bull and rests her cheek on her hand - the other hand still loosely curled into the leather strap, “I said yes; I don’t mind.”

Evelyn stares at Ellana. Ellana slowly sticks the tip of her tongue out.

“I mean, now I know you can talk,” Evelyn says, “But somehow I still don’t expect it.”

Ellana blows a raspberry and then puts her head down on the table, making small burbling noises.

“So,” Bull says, “Anything else you wanted to talk about, boss? Because if we’re talking about relationships I’ve got a bet going with the others about when you and Cullen are finally going to - “

“Okay, we’re done here, go rest up, Bull. You can report in later,” Evelyn quickly stands up, “I’m going to go uh. I’m just going to go now.”

“Is your uncle okay?” Dorian asks, “He’s been - well. He’s been quiet. I know that seems like an odd thing to say, but he’s been quiet.”

“It’s just getting close to the death anniversary of some important people,” Malika answers, quickly finishing off tying some rope to secure supplies meant for the Approach to the cart. Malika rests her hand on the canvas that covers the crates of materials. “He’ll be alright, he just - he just gets really nostalgic around this time. I think he and I are probably going to go out when the day gets here. Not far, probably just away.”

“May I ask who’s death?” Dorian says.

“His wife,” Malika says, and then carefully, “And their husband.”

Dorian blinks, raising a finger and makes a quick diagram in the air, as if to sketch out the schematics of that relationship.

“They were really nice,” Malika says, “They died about twelve years back. I was seven or eight when it happened. But I still remember them. They were really nice people. Uncle Brom always made me a cake whenever I visited. His cakes were the best. Aunt Isolde would always say that he was trying to make me into a ball.”

“I’m sorry for the loss,” Dorian says, “They sound like warm people.”

“They were,” Malika nods, “Uncle Edric hasn’t really been the same since they died. I mean, it’s not like he’s totally different or anything. He’s just more tired, I guess.”

“The loss of a loved one, no matter how far past, is something that always drains part of you a little gray,” Dorian says.

“I’m sorry about Felix,” Malika takes Dorian’s hand, “His dad was a complete reckless asshole. But I can kind of understand. Felix was brave. He sounds warm, too.”

“Thank you,” Dorian squeezes her hand. “The world is a little colder without them, but we go on.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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