#but he's so certain the threat is always from orlais

[laurelsofhighever]

It’s hard to separate the effects of Ostagar from the rest of the events in-game that are tied up with Fereldan politics. Having recently played it there are a lot of things that could have gone differently, but in most cveases without Loghain’s distrust of Orlesians it would likely have gone better. For a start, it’s the Orlesian Grey Wardens specifically that are being held at the border, not the army itself, but Loghain vetoes any help from them, despite them being a more established (and presumably better equipped) chapter of Wardens because to him and Orlesian is always an Orlesian no matter what other loyalties they claim. So that’s one less significant force to make use of.

Then there are the armies of Redcliffe and Amaranthine. Loghain is directly responsible for Eamon not joining the force at Ostagar, and it’s strongly implied that the only reason Howe moved against the Couslands instead of taking his army to Ostagar was because someone powerful was going to protect him from the consequences (and it certainly wouldn’t have been Cailan). Both of these series of events happen before Ostagar and suggest Cailan’s death was at least partly premeditated, because Eamon and Bryce are arguably Loghain’s biggest political rivals in the Landsmeet, and the result is two more armies that aren’t available to fight the darkspawn.

The other major problem is that nobody except Duncan seems willing to believe that this is a true Blight. There’s a very 1914 “one good cavalry charge and we’ll be home in time for Christmas” attitude to what’s going on. If Duncan’s warnings had been taken more seriously, maybe the political machinations would have been put on hold to face the bigger threat. As it is, withdrawing his soldiers didn’t really put Loghain ahead, because letting the king die in questionable circumstances causes a civil war that weakens Ferelden significantly, and meanwhile the darkspawn are given an opportunity to regroup.

As for the tactics in the battle itself, it’s difficult to say when most of what we see is a cinematic and we have to lose for plot reasons, but on the whole, it looks like a solid plan: the royal army has a fortified position on the high ground, controlling a narrow pass to funnel the darkspawn into a killing field and (if Loghain had done his part) catch them in a pincer movement that would cut off the retreat. Considering how the darkspawn weren’t expected to take the Tower of Ishal and that we don’t know the exact size of the horde, it’s not possible to say for certain whether there would have been victory, but with a significantly smaller force, tactics become all the more important. Even coming in late, Loghain could have made a difference, and there’s references later that his soldiers knew this, because at least one speaks out about the retreat, and Loghain has him disappeared. aside from anything else, the soldiers in the main army were expecting reinforcements when the beacon was lit, and when they didn’t come, the confusion and despair would have given the darkspawn an edge. We even see it in Duncan when he realises they’ve been left ot fend for themselves.

Having said that, Cailan would have been better off away from the front lines. Yes Loghain tried to talk him out of it, and called him foolish, but I always wonder how much of his recklessness is spurred by the need to live up to the beacon of kingship Maric represented - a king is supposed to lead, a king is supposed to be a warrior, a king is supposed to inspire tales and songs. And yet even in the brief interactions we see between them, Loghain makes it clear he doesn’t measure up. There’s no doubt he regrets Cailan’s death, but it’s debateable how much he also thinks of it as a regrettable necessity.

In the end, Ostagar is a perfect storm of human pettiness, pride, and paranoia, and an overwhelming force that shows no mercy to those in its path.

curious on your ostagar opinions as a player—i’m personally on the side of “ostagar wasn’t anyone’s fault, including loghain’s, though some people cailin couldve minimized the loss better than they did”, (though i still hold loghain very accountable for the way he handles the ferelden civil war and the slavery), but i know you spared him in your main playthrough

ostagar’s an interesting one and it’s taken me a while to develop my thoughts on it. battles are by nature complicated and chaotic and hard to pin down to one factor—there’s a reason real medieval war leaders tended to avoid them if possible—but here’s some thoughts

1. the push to confront the darkspawn as quickly as possible, even when troops from amaranthine, redcliffe, orlais, etc. had not yet arrived. both cailan and loghain seem responsible for this. cailan is reckless and confident, unconcerned with the idea of facing the darkspawn without reinforcements, and loghain actively vetoes the idea of waiting for orlesian reinforcements. as i recall it’s primarily duncan who wants to wait but the grey wardens are on shaky footing and he doesn’t have the influence to press that. if it hadn’t been for loghain’s insistence, cailan might well have waited for the orlesians, but if cailan hadn’t called for the orlesians, maybe loghain would be the one counselling to wait for redcliffe and amaranthine. neither should loghain’s fears of the orlesians be written off as unreasonable imo like yes his choice here went badly but it wasn’t based on unfounded prejudice and there’s no way to know what might have happened

2. the beacon was delayed and mistimed. this isn’t anyone’s fault except the darkspawn. alistair and the warden were supposed to light the beacon at a particular time, but instead of that being an easy job, the tower has been suddenly overrun by the time they get there. alistair comments as you fight through the tower that you’ve probably missed the signal and should light the beacon just, like, as soon as you get up there. this chaos must have affected decisions taken on the ground and, as the main change from the original battle plan, was possibly why the beacon was delayed enough that loghain considered there no longer to be any chance of saving cailan

3. alistair says at flemeth’s hut that he has no idea why loghain would turn away, and that the king’s forces “had nearly defeated” the darkspawn. i’ll make allowances for his perspective being somewhat affected by the losses he’s just suffered, but his judgements are generally very good on this kind of thing and i trust them. i don’t see any reason to write this off, especially combined with other witness accounts. i do believe him that there was a real possibility to win here

4. at flemeth’s hut, all anyone can guess is that loghain wanted the throne—men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature, and all that—but there’s no sign of this in loghain later in the game, although supporters of his like howe may have wanted that as an end goal. there’s nothing ambitious in loghain, there’s no intent to betray. loghain claims he remembers “a fool’s death and a hard choice” and that “the darkspawn would either have had him or have had us all”. it seems odd that he consistently blames cailan’s foolishness when it was a battle plan he had agreed to and nothing really changes on cailan’s part, but cailan’s recklessness and lack of care for battle plans is thoroughly set up in the ostagar prologue and i imagine it affected how he was handling things during the battle and also the aforementioned failures to get all of ferelden’s forces there in time. nonetheless my point is that this was purely a tactical decision on loghain’s part, and he regretted cailan’s loss (even if he blamed cailan for it). so either he genuinely thought the battle could not be won, or that it would mean enough losses that it would not be worth winning. and i trust his judgements too—battle leadership and strategy is his whole skillset

SO where does all that leave us. i think ultimately my perspective on the battle, which i think gives it a reasonable balance and a reasonable way to argue both sides, is that if loghain had followed the plan they would have won and cailan and duncan might have lived. thus, loghain can be considered responsible. however it would have left ferelden with significantly higher casualties. loghain’s men would have been lost as well as the king’s. ferelden would have been in an even worse state than it already was, and that with a) a blight still ongoing, since the archdemon was not present at ostagar, and b) a whole orlesian army of reinforcements on the way, with no-one to stop them at the border, and who with ferelden’s defences completely crippled might well fight the darkspawn just like the grey wardens wanted... and then find reason to stick around. celene was obviously trying to regain orlesian influence in ferelden with her letters to cailan, and there are several pieces of minor dialogue in da2 which openly threaten the possibility of orlais retaking ferelden in the aftermath of the blight’s destruction. could they really resist the temptation if their armies had the excuse to already be there? ferelden hasn’t even been free for as long as it was under orlesian rule

(as a side note, me sparing loghain in my main playthrough isn’t me being a Loghain Was Right truther and certainly doesn’t mean i or my warden absolve him of his actions during the blight, especially towards the alienage. ‘is loghain right/morally salvageable?’ isn’t really the decision my warden makes at the landsmeet; it’s ‘is it more important to kill a man for doing evil or to let him live to do good?’. it’s ‘is it more important to publicly make a peaceful compromise or to make a strong statement against my enemies and in favour of my allies?’ more personally to my warden, it’s ‘i have fought so hard all this time so that everyone will know someone like me can save ferelden, but how will the history books remember me if i become the elven mage who killed the hero of river dane?’ those are all far more interesting and relevant considerations to explore for me narratively than assigning blame)

[pellelavellan]

@quiisquiliae from here

"There is always a lesser evil." The inquisitor insisted.

He expected backlash for the choices made at the masquerade ball from a number of people: his advisers, the people of Orlais, shit even people who weren't Orlesian. He'd done what he had to, and as far as he was concerned had done nothing he wasn't told to do. He was told to make a decision, and he did. The circumstances were not perfect, but he saw an opportunity fall in front of him and he took it.

He wasn't happy about cozying up to people who would certainly sell him for a crust of bread, doing them favors, smiling and thanking them for backhanded compliments. He hated every second of it. But that was the game had to be played. It was necessary to play people, get them to think he was on uninformed of their political squabble or they'd keep their mouths shut. If he knew anything about the sorts of people that wandered that ballroom, it was that they loved to talk about themselves, and thought their opinions and ambitions were the most interesting thing to be heard. So he let them think whatever they wanted if it got them babbling.

Truth was he had done his research, and he had actually hoped he might meet Briala at the ball. There were questions that needed answers. Some she could tell him herself and some her body language and inflections would tell for her.

He needed to know if somewhere down there she still cared for the Empress, or the Empress for her. He got that answer, and he used that information accordingly.

"I know what you must think. I acted with an agenda to impose. I manipulated two women who have no business together into forgiving each other, one of which as I see it has no right to forgiveness. I put in a precarious situation to prove a point, and used their affections for each other against them. But do you not think it is better this way for them to see that two people, and one who they would otherwise overlook can work together? Do you not see that men who will do anything to seize power are better off removed before they become a deeper problem?" He sighed. Talon wasn't really the person to argue this with.

It wasn't like Talon was deeply involved in the political turmoil that was the Orlesian court, or that he could perchance offer a better solution. He had asked a question, he hadn't accused him or anything.

"Listen, I don't know if I did the right thing. That's kind of the shitty part about all of this isn't it?" He was very stressed, visibly so. Pacing around the war room babbling all his concerns to no one in particular. The feelings he had were somewhere between anger and fear. Angry that he was certain some would see his actions as a threat, or a ploy to force his ideals onto an entire country, and afraid of the consequences those notions would create. "I don't think anyone knows really. We all just do things and hope they don't come back to bite us in the ass. This certainly will, and I know, I fucking know it will!"

[baejax-the-great]

WIP Wednesday

I have not forgotten Overboard btw I am gonna finish this thing if it kills me so here's a bit from the next chapter:

Alistair jerked in surprise when he felt magic slithering over his skin, but it was healing magic. Aches he hadn’t even really registered receded. He closed his eyes, drinking in the relief that would not last long enough.

���They did this to you on purpose,” Bethany murmured.

“What, marooned me?”

“No.” She was frowning at him, her hands hovering over his skin, and he wondered what her healing magic allowed her to see in him. “They could have stashed you anywhere, the royal guard, the chantry, but they chose the templars. They got you on the lyrium on purpose.” 

Alistair tensed a bit at that. He was trying very hard not to think about his stash that now sat on the ocean floor or exactly how many vials he’d had left—three—or the fish that were certainly drinking it even now. “Strictly speaking, that’s true of any templar. Very few people accidentally memorize and recite a bunch of vows and finish it off with ritual lyrium consumption.”

“I meant they wanted to make certain they could always control you. That you couldn’t run away.” 

“Yeah… there is that.”

“At least now they’ll think you’re dead.”

Alistair smiled. “Wish I could see Eamon’s face when he gets that news that I’m dead and all his leverage is gone. And Gregoir’s face when he finds out Eamon got the news and inevitably blames him. And then Anora’s face when she finds out I lived. Maybe if I go to Denerim first I can make that last one happen, haunt the castle and confuse everyone, though I doubt she’d let me anywhere near the throne room.”

He wondered what kind of political turmoil could be accomplished in the week or so that his fate was unknown. Just how badly did Anora begrudge the threat that Alistair posed to her? Ferelden didn’t have heads rolling as often as Orlais, but Eamon’s position and influence could be significantly changed by the time Alistair made it home.

Bethany was staring at him as if it were her own fortunes he had tanked by falling into the sea.

“You can’t possibly mean to go back,” she said.

[contreparry]

heeey let's go with an action prompt: "for one muse to step between the other and someone who intends to do them harm" :)

Absolutely! Here’s some Adoribull for @dadrunkwriting !

Dorian was used to assassination attempts. It was part of being an aristocrat, after all, and Tevinter society was no different from the rest of the nobility in Thedas. In fact, Dorian was fairly certain they ranked alongside Antiva and Orlais for “Most Assassin Guilds Per Capita.” Frankly speaking he grew uneasy when there wasn’t someone trying to take his life every fortnight. It meant someone had been going soft, or that Dorian Pavus had lost his touch and was no longer considered a threat. So when the window to his study crashed inward, glass shards raining down like chunks of ice, Dorian almost sighed in relief. Wouldn’t be a day in the Imperium without an attempt on his life.

It was as the cloaked assassin rushed past the fireplace that Dorian realized they weren’t rushing towards him. They changed their direction, twisting their body just so so they could take out a knife from within their cloak, raise it up, and stab not him but-

“Kaffas, really?” Dorian hissed as he flung himself over his desk and into the assassin’s path. He batted the arm holding the dagger down before shocking the would-be assassin with a lightning bolt. The assassin slumped into a heap, dark cloak obscuring their form. Dorian nudged them with his foot just to make sure they weren’t faking unconsciousness or death. He hadn’t meant to incapacitate, not kill, but when he saw the oily sheen on the knife, the arc of the blade descending to pierce unguarded skin, he panicked.

“Pretty sure you fried him, kadan,” The Iron Bull remarked. Dorian turned to find Bull slowly lowering an elaborate candelabra down on the side table. Something about the contrast between Bull’s scarred hand tightly gripping the heavily decorated candelabra, with swirls and loops and bunches of grapes cast in pewter, made Dorian want to laugh. But he held his tongue and knelt down to check the would-be assassin’s pulse. None. Dead. Fucking shit he wanted to question them, and now-

“Good. Might make them reconsider sending another one this month,” Dorian retorted as he rose to his feet. “Everything alright? No cuts? Bruises? Funny tingling sensations on the skin?” Practical. Assassination attempts were normal. He shouldn’t be shaken. He was clearly losing his touch. Life in the south of Thedas softened him.

“Eh, nothing out of the ordinary. I can swoon if you want it. I know you love drama,” Bull teased, but there was a softness in his expression, a concern in his grey eye, that made the sharp reply Dorian was formulating die on his tongue. When Bull opened his arms Dorian shuffled forward and collapsed into his embrace, exhaustion flooding his limbs. Assassins were normal, he reminded himself. It was to be expected.

“Stupid of me to think you would be left alone,” he muttered. “Stupid to think that, for all our subterfuge, we wouldn’t be noticed.” Stupid to think that his enemies would only go after him, that they would all be so easily distracted by his flash and drama and ignore those who stood by him.

“Dorian, it’ll take more than one measly assassin with a poisoned knife to take me down. Knew they were coming the moment that shadow passed over the desk,” Bull said, as if that was somehow supposed to reassure him. Dorian sighed and buried his face into Bull’s broad chest. Of course Bull knew. Of course he saw. Right before the glass shattered The Iron Bull rose to his feet to make his way to the side table- Dorian had assumed the man was going to pour them a drink, but as always Bull had seen what he hadn’t and prepared accordingly.

Dorian really must try harder to protect those he loved. He was out of practice, especially if one measly assassination attempt put him out of sorts.

“Let me be upset with myself for a little while, Amatus. I’ve already worked myself into brooding and I should at least dedicate an hour to my emotional turmoil,” Dorian grumbled, but he grinned a little when Bull’s low laughter shook his body.

“One hour only,” Bull decided. “Then we get a drink, eh?”

[dreadfutures]

What does Ixchel think about kids? Does she like them? Want her own? Does she think she would make a good parent?

Thank you so much for this, wow, loaded question for Ixchel for Plot Reasons, you have no idea. Unless you definitely have an idea.

I think about this a lot.

Because Ixchel is good with kids. We don’t get to see her working with them a lot, but she loves kids. Kieran, as weird as he is, and Cole, as special as he is, and the many children in Skyhold. The many Dalish children and alienage children she’s met over the years. She humors them and takes them seriously and accepts their trinkets with reverence. Children are the only creatures that can really get her to let down her walls and be happy. Happy without thinking. Joy, just from participation in a child’s existence.

(At a certain age though I think her temper’d get the better of her. See: Valorin’s stupid ass.)

So here is where she was at the start of her second go around:

But she was angry. She was angry that [Solas] had turned her into this dark, twisted woman who denied herself everything she wanted because of her duty. She was angry that he had made her aware of such terrible world-ending secrets. Once, she had wanted children of her own. Once, she had wanted to apply to the universities in Orlais on one of Celene’s rare scholarships. Once, her highest aspiration had been to wear the vallaslin of a Dalish Clan and provide for her people in little ways: hunting, singing, translating. All that had been lost in the face of the two apocalypses he had brought upon her world. Even now, guilt ate at her for dallying here and satiating her more fanciful desires—guilt he had placed in her with his ever-looming threat in the back of her mind.

Much like my own feelings about climate change and a lot of things about the State of the World, having children is really just. Not in the picture. There are too many other Things on my mind and I am too scared of the future to bring someone into the present. There’s also a big aspect of...Ixchel knows there’s something inherently inclined to depression within her, and tbh I don’t think they really have a concept of genetics, but there must be a visceral fear of passing down her nihilism and angst if only by exposure.

But here’s another thing. Ixchel can’t have children of her own. She has known this about her body for years at this point. Her first life, she was with the Inquisition for years, and they did not fully understand the dangers of red lyrium, or walking bodily in the Fade, or any number of terribly dangerous things she did. She was a malnourished orphan during the Blight, maybe it started there. Maybe it’s because of the beatings she’s taken over the course of her short lives. Like, she’s been gutstabbed, probably. You don’t survive a fight with Samson unscathed. Maybe it’s the strain of fighting twelve dragons, or the stress of being the Hope of Thedas, but she’s known she’s not going to have her own for a long time.

Ixchel’s happy ending has never been about The Man and The Children and the Home. It’s always been about family, in whatever form. A found family of friends. (God, can you imagine how much different her life would have been if Cole had remained a Spirit the first time and stayed...?) And I think there’s a lot she could still offer to children entering that family. She’s going to be a great aunt to Dorian’s adopted children, and to Cullen’s, at the very least. And definitely, a child doesn’t need to be her own for all of these things to be true.

But the fact is that the apocalypse was never just Solas’s apocalypse. And she has been learning that the world is always ending. People are always awful.

“Telanadas, I have told you. But this is the inevitability. We are an endless entropy towards self-destruction. And yet…” 

And yet.

“And the world is at risk, and all the little worlds within it are, too. Except this one.”

[tyrantlavellan]

A little Drabble I made for @lindsmorr because I owe her a lot. We miss our disaster sons.

(I know I promised no plot, but I had to think of somethingggggggg 🥺)

The bustling of the infamous Orlais market filled the air. Merchants crowded around the Inquisition company just for a glimpse of the Inquisitor.

Mahanon ignored them, waving his hand to his bodyguards. Inquisition soldiers shoved the crowd aside. He heard Taavi scoff as they made their way through the city, vast buildings with rich architecture and lavish gardens stretched out on either side of them. But Mahanon didn’t pay any attention. His mind was elsewhere.

Divine Victoria was trying everything in her power to lessen his grasp. Trying to change the ways of the Chantry was not going well for her, and with most of her own followers squabbling like over privileged children, she was not getting the support she needed. Her first few months as Divine was not going well. She wished to do what she believed was right, a noble deed Mahanon had to admit.

One that he was inclined to prevent from happening.

What she didn’t know was that he was the reason she was elected the new Divine in the first place. She would have lost her nomination to Leliana, had Mahanon not intervened. He gave himself a pat on the back for that one. The Chantry would have been a chaotic mess if Leliana was chosen.

He encouraged Cassandra to reinstate the Seekers to ensure the circle remained intact and well guarded. He definitely wasn’t taking any chances with the mages. He had seen the catastrophic damage they were capable of too many times.

The Divine might have successfully stripped him of his influence, were it not for the support of the Emperor, forever indebted to Mahanon for replacing Celene, and the majority of the noble houses supporting his title as Herald of Andraste. Mahanon smiled smugly to himself.

“This place reeks of dirty money, selling stuff that is not even worth half their price,” Taavi interrupted. A disgusted look wrinkled his face. “It’s like they dip their shit in gold and call it a fashion statement.”

Mahanon chuckled.

“This is Orlais, anything can be fashion if you’re rich enough, and have a lot of influence.”

“Whole place is a nightmare…” Taavi said, narrowly avoiding a group of chevaliers standing in the middle of the street. “The size of their egos definitely makes up for their lack of size down -”

Trumpets blasted cutting him off.

They made their way into the courtyard of the Chantry, where Divine Victoria awaited them atop a giant flight of stairs. Her rigid expression could make anyone tremble, but Mahanon knew better.

A crowd of Orlesians had amassed behind them and they cheered, singing chantry songs and praising the Herald of Andraste. Mahanon couldn’t help but smirk.

“Stop doing that,” Taavi smacked him.

“Ow! What was that for?” Mahanon shoved him back.

“You look like an idiot, smiling and waving to the crowd like you're some sort of idol.”

“In case you forgot, I did save the world from certain doom. And this is how they like to thank me,” Mahanon said, waving back at the crowd again.

“Oh that’s right. My bad, your highness,” Taavi mocked.

“Well now it’s sounds cringe when you say it,”

“Why did they have to build so many steps? And why is she so cross looking? What did you do to make her upset, we just got here,” Taavi grabbed onto Mahanon’s arm instinctively as they walked past the Seekers. He eyed them suspiciously.

“She is still upset about that whole Empris du Lion situation. Apparently the Chantry doesn’t condone blowing up Chevalier estates, despite blood mage cultists squatting inside,”

“That doesn’t seem very - ”

“I also may have slept with her a bunch and maybe kind of lied about a lot of things to convince her to become the Divine,” Mahanon said quietly, biting his lip.

“Oh, so now that makes more sense. Wait you slept with the Div - ”

“Welcome Inquisitor!” A clergyman yelled so the crowd could hear. “Our beloved Herald of Andraste has descended from his throne to grace us with his presence, may the Maker bless him always and continue to shine his light on all his children!”

The crowd cheered loudly. Mahanon waved, avoiding Taavi’s intensely disapproving gaze.

“Again with the waving, you look like a fool.”

“Why can’t you just have fun with me and let these peasants worship me,” Mahanon said, now blowing kisses to the courtiers.

“You are insufferable.” Taavi sneered under his breath.

“Enough with the attention seeking,” the Divine suddenly cut in, standing right beside them, arms crossed, still unimpressed. “Inside. Now.” She snapped, swiftly walking inside the giant looming doors of the cathedral.

“She seems nice,” said Taavi.

“Just let me do the talking,” Mahanon whispered back. “You just keep your eyes out for anything suspicious.”

Taavi rolled his eyes, but followed Mahanon inside the lavish building.

The Chantry spared no expense in their decorations. Images of Andraste, the Maker, and any other revered patron were scattered on every surface possible. Even the door handles had depictions of Andraste and her followers. The clergyman and the chantry sisters walked around, muttering chants and bowing as they passed.

Mahanon tried not to laugh at Taavi’s horrified expression.

“If I hear someone call me ‘your grace’ one more time…” Taavi hissed.

They entered the Divine’s council chamber. Every seemingly important person in Orlais was already waiting for them.

Josephine had arrived days before them, in an attempt to smooth things over with the council beforehand. She glared at them as they walked in.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mahanon called out, making sure the entirety of the room could hear. “I got lost in this giant labyrinth, so many unnecessary buildings.”

Josie stood in bewilderment as he stopped next to her.

“Inquisitor, glad you could finally make it,” she hissed through her teeth as she forced a smile.

“Glad to be here too, dear Josephine. I’m sure you entertained these people just fine. It is your job after all.” Mahanon said as he patted her head. She stiffened and took a very deep breath and muttered something in Antivan.

“I see things haven’t changed much.” Divine Victoria said, glaring in Mahanon’s direction as she took her seat.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Mahanon smiled at her. She gritted her teeth in disgust.

“She shall be addressed as Divine Victoria, Your Holiness, Most Holy, or the Holy Mother!” a Cleric snapped.

“My apologies,” Mahanon said, bowing out of mockery. “The name hasn’t really stuck so well. She wasn’t quite so ‘holy’ from what I remember.”

“You little -”

“Enough,” the Divine, raised her hand to silence them. “This is getting us nowhere.” She straightened her shoulders, making sure to appear taller, her outrageous hat towering above everyone.

“Inquisitor, despite your blatant lack of respect, we have called you here in an attempt to salvage the relationship between the Inquisition and the Chantry. There have been far too many disputes, and it is in your best interest to help us remain united.”

“I’m not quite sure I follow, Most Holy of Holiness.” He sneered, crossing his arms dramatically. “Last I looked, the Inquisition was doing very well working with the Chantry.”

“What he means to say, Your Excellence,” Josie cut in. “The Inquisition has been successful to maintain and utilize resources graciously donated by the Chantry, in the name of the Maker, of course.”

“I am aware, Ambassador.” Victoria said, nodding in her direction. “The Inquisition has been quick to dive into the Chantry vaults. But I disagree. Your Herald of Andraste has done terrible things, to both friends and enemies of the Inquisition. I cannot pretend you have the Chantry’s interests at heart when he seems to only take what he pleases.

“But what the Inquisitor fails to realize is, the title ‘Herald of Andraste’ can only go so far. Should the Chantry denounce the title of Herald, the Inquisition would not be entitled to anything regarding the Chantry.”

Mahanon snorted loudly.

“Let me see if I remember this correctly,” Mahanon said, clearing his throat. “But was it not one ‘Cassandra Pentaghast’ that insisted on defying Chantry order and encouraged the Inquisition’s inception in the first place?”

“The Chantry was leaderless,” she snapped, hands clenched into tight fists, making her knuckles white. “You cannot compare what happened then to this current situation.

“The Inquisition has done what it was meant to do, which was to stop the immediate threat of Corypheus. You have already done so. In continuing to expand the Inquisition and gain military prowess, you are going against everything that Andraste stood for.”

“So what would you consider the Templars and the Seekers, if not a military extension of the Chantry?” Mahanon argued. “The Inquisition is just more independent with how we function.”

“Not exactly true,” the Divine said coldly, challenging him. “The templars have one purpose, and that is to protect the Circle from threats both inside and out. The Seekers ensure the templars don’t fall out of line.

“The Inquisition has done neither of those things. And as of late it’s hard to say exactly what the purpose of the Inquisition is in its current state.”

Murmurs from the council members crept around the room. Mahanon could feel his face getting hot. But he still had some leverage.

“Perhaps we should ask our beloved Emperor Gaspard,” Mahanon said calmly. Gaspard squirmed in his seat as all eyes fell on him. “I’m sure he would have single handedly kept the country from being torn apart by the Civil War after Celene’s tragic death,” Mahanon eyed Gaspard. He could see the sweat dripping down his face even from where he stood.

“ And Ser Chaplain,” he continued, now staring at a retired Chevalier, one of his most generous donors. “His company would have totally been able to keep mercenaries and Venatori from overtaking his very financially successful mining operations in the Frostbacks.”

The Orlesian noble cleared his throat nervously.

“And of course,” Mahanon continued. “The general population of Thedas would definitely agree with denouncing the very force that saved them from the very demons of the Fade and the remains of the giant tear in the sky that would have ripped the world to pieces.” Mahanon stared the Divine in the eye.

“Because of course every single threat to Thedas died with Corypheus, and no city ever had to be rebuilt, no village ever faced a food shortage or threats from thieves or natural disasters.”

Nobody said a word.

“But I suppose the Inquisition doesn’t do any of those things either.” Mahanon looked across the room as the council whispered to each other.

The look on the Divine’s face was a mix of pure anger and defeat. Mahanon just smiled smugly. The council continued to whisper for several minutes.

“I feel like the council may lean in our favour,” Josie whispered.

“The Emperor and his bureaucrats owe us too much to not come to our defence.” Mahanon replied. “If the Divine thinks that her way is the only way, she’s going to be very disappointed.”

Finally the Divine raised her hand and the whispering cut off.

“We are calling a recess. We will return in an hour,” she said abruptly. Then she left the room just as quickly.

“Well then,” Josie sighed. “Time for some sightseeing?”

Mahanon turned to leave, but stopped short. Taavi was missing. He immediately became alert. He briskly walked out into the grand hallway, shoving a chantry brother out of the way. He could feel panic rising.

He opened doors, intent on searching the entire building until he heard laughing from a shadowy corner.

“You should see your face just now,” Taavi laughed as he casually walked out of his hiding spot. “Concern is such a cute look for you.”

Mahanon’s face went red. He crossed his arms as Taavi tried to pull him close.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, pushing Taavi away. “I didn’t think you’d ditch me like that.”

“I don’t consider the squabbles of the Chantry to be important, actually,” Taavi retorted. “But what I do find mildly entertaining,” he continued, slowly walking towards Mahanon with a sly look on his face. “Is you, pretending like you don’t care about me, when it’s very much obvious that you do,” Taavi lightly pushed Mahanon against the wall behind him. His towering frame kept him from going anywhere.

“Really, Taavi?” Mahanon said, looking around at the busy traffic going to and fro around the cathedral. “Right now doesn’t seem to be the best time or place for this,”

“Since when do you care about the when and where?” Taavi laughed. He gently turned Mahanon’s head to expose his neck, and kissed him softly, breathing heavily in his ear.

Mahanon felt his body get hot, and closed his eyes as Taavi gently grazed his ear with his teeth.

“I just…don’t…” Mahanon forgot what he was trying to say. “We are in a hallway….”

“You didn’t think I planned ahead? Where did you think I went off to?”

Suddenly Taavi lifted him up, wrapping Mahanon’s legs around his waist, their faces inches away from each other.

“I have you right where I wanted you,” Taavi said with a smirk as he kicked the door they were leaning against open.

He carried Mahanon into a small chapel, only furnished with a few wooden benches and a small altar table. He kicked the door shut behind them.

“Of all the rooms you could have chosen, you picked a closet?” Mahanon scoffed.

“I think it’s some sort of servants’ chapel, actually. Guess the rich don’t like mingling with commoners when it comes to chantry shit,” Taavi plopped Mahanon onto the tiny altar, knocking over Andraste paraphernalia, shattering them on the floor.

“And besides,” he continued. “Most of the servants are busy catering to all the snobby guests, don’t have time to come pray, or whatever they do in here.”

Taavi started kissing and sucking on Mahanon’s neck again, making sure to press their bodies together.

“You know,” Mahanon said quietly, now completely helpless as he could feel Taavis hands slowly unfastening his belt, lingering a bit before disappearing underneath the fabric. “They’re not going to be too pleased if I’m late again.” He bit his lip, trying to hold back a moan.

“Well I guess I better hurry then,” Taavi smirked, working his way down, throwing his own pants behind him.

Mahanon didn’t have time to object before Taavi pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him. Taavi clasped his hand over Mahanon’s mouth, muffling the sound of him moaning in pleasure as Taavi fucked him.

Whether it was the sacrilegious nature of being absolutely pounded on top a sacred altar, or Taavi wrapping his fingers around Mahanon’s neck as his breath came out in ragged gasps, or more likely the combination of both those things, it did not take long for Taavi to make Mahanon finish.

Taavi squeezed his hand around Mahanon’s delicate neck as he trembled with pleasure, leaving a mess all over his own hands. A few more thrusts and Taavi joined him. Both now breathing heavy, they let the last of the pleasure flow through them. Eyes closed, they lay in silence, both smiling.

“You’re getting too good at that,” Mahanon chuckled, stroking Taavi’s hair.

“What can I say, I’m a natural,” Taavi replied, taking Mahanon’s hand and kissing it gently.

Mahanon sighed, looking around the tiny space. He didn’t think they’d make such a mess in their brief moment, but he laughed as Taavi fished their pants from the other side of the room.

“Better get going, before Divine Victoria decides to go searching for us herself,” Mahanon grumbled, trying to clasp his belt properly. Taavi shook his head.

“I’m getting a headache just thinking about going back to that council disaster,” Taavi rubbed his temples dramatically. “I’m gonna go outside for some fresh air.”

Mahanon just rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to miss all the fun,” he replied. “But if you insist. Perhaps we can go for round two later,” he placed a kiss on Taavis lips.

“Perhaps…” Taavi said quietly. “If you don’t take forever…”

“I’ll show you what I can do later, I just need silk, some candles, and a couple of apples”

“What are the apples for?” Taavi asked, confused.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Mahanon teased, pushing the door open and disappearing down the hall with a bit of a spring in his step.

[alittlestarling]

Roz/Rolfe #87?

Oh god, this is awoken so many OTP feelings for me.

#87: The Moon Will Sing by The Crane Wives

“You were absolutely splendid,” Rolfe’s voice was a soft murmur against her ear as they rejoined the party. Truthfully, Roz felt a little shaky, but she couldn’t deny the triumphant energy that bubbled in her chest. Orlais would be saved, they would help, and perhaps they would have a shot at defeating Corypheus. The worries and concerns of the days leading up to tonight melted away as she tucked her hand into his arm; she could have floated now, had she been able to, basking in the warmth of his gaze.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” She teased in turn, leaning into him a little more fully as they walked, neither seemingly in a rush to return to the gregarious partying that had replaced the chaos from Florianne. 

“Well-” Rolfe began, but his gaze slid upwards and his steps came to a sudden, crashing halt. Thank the Maker she was holding onto his arm, steadying herself as she glanced up at the figure bringing their joy to a halt.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“William.” The name clicked into place, as did the tension roiling through Rolfe’s frame. While Roz struggled to see anything pairing the two as brothers, the energy between the two of them was hard to deny: heavy, like a stone, and thick with an animosity that was damn near palpable. Older than Rolfe, the smile that stretched across William Treveylan’s lips was anything but friendly, already putting Roz ill at ease.

“I had to see for myself this agent of the Inquisition mother mentioned in her latest letter.” Dressed in finery like the rest of the nobility that had descended upon the Winter Palace, William’s gaze flicked over Roz, lingering a little too long to make her comfortable. “Seems you’ve really made yourself useful to the Inquisitor.”

“I’m right here,” Roz spoke, her tone full of barbs, her hackles raising without any further encouragement. 

“So long as my baby brother knows his place.” The sneer was impossible to miss and Roz’s spine straightened further, anger simmering low in her gut. “You don’t come from nobility, Inquisitor,” William’s gaze flickered over to Roz and then back to Rolfe, “but one must always know their standing. There’s only room for those worthy of their titles.”

For a moment, as Roz turned her gaze so briefly to Rolfe, she saw a small crack in his usual mask. The certainty and swagger that engulfed him in most days seemed dimmed in the shadow of his older brother. For a single moment, a flash of childhood appeared across both their faces: a bully looking to stomp down as hard as he can, and a boy dodging with all his might.

“You’re right,” Roz’s tone did nothing to hide the contempt that laced each word that came from her mouth. “And do you know what I think?” Even in the heels she’d worn, Roz was small, but that didn’t matter as she stood with as much dignity as she could muster (Maker, Vivienne would be proud). “I think you’re a small man who barely dignifies a response.”

William’s sneer melted into a snarl, stepping forward in an attempt to tower over Roz, who remained rooted to the ground. Rolfe, in turn, pivoted just slightly, eye to eye with his brother. “He’s always soiled the Trevelyan name, Mistress Marlowe,” He spat, face turning redder by the instant. “You’d do well to avoid getting caught with the likes of him.”

“That’s enough!” Electricity sizzled at Roz’s fingertips and Rolfe’s brother paled, taking a half step away from them. “Rolfe is so much better than anything you or your family forced him into.” She was so tired of the double-talking and the half-veiled threats that she’d been dancing around all evening; William had made the mistake of getting in the way of a good time, and now would reap the misfortune of daring to insult her or his brother.

At her side, Rolfe’s hand found hers, which she laced effortlessly, fingers intertwined easily and steadfastly. Channeling every Orlesian who had been effortlessly rude and stuck-up to her in the past few days, she lifted her chin, nose in the air. “That will be all.” It took a moment (and a gentle tug) as she started forward, all but glaring at William to move out of the day. 

He did, less gracefully than she figured he wanted, almost tripping over his feet. Rolfe shrugged, giving a sarcastic wave to his older brother as they breezed off. Roz’s hands were shaking, adrenaline rushing through her fast enough to make her dizzy.

“Here-” and she tugged Rolfe quickly behind a nearby pillar, trying to catch her breath as a nervous giggle escaped her lips. “-Andraste preserve me, I’m sorry to have caused a scene, but-” She didn’t have a chance to finish that sentence as Rolfe’s gently cupped her face in his hands, his mouth on hers, swallowing the apology swiftly.

“The look on his smug face,” Rolfe laughed, but there was still something a little shaky about him. Roz leaned up to kiss him again, fingers anchored in his hair. “Keep doing that,” Rolfe breathed against her mouth, “and I don’t think we’ll make it back to the party.” There was a mischievous glint in his gaze.

“I’m not certain there’s much family of yours left for me to tell off,” Rozn couldn’t help herself, warmth blooming in her chest at the surprised barking laugh that followed.

“No, leave them to their misery,” His lips ghosted the shell of her ear. “I have better things to fill our time with.

[shannaraisles]

A Convenient Princess - Chapter 1

The Inquisition has been disbanded. After several years of triumph and loss, Anne Trevelyan has made her decision. If Starkhaven wants a princess, then she will be that princess. Who said anything about love?

[Read on AO3]

Chapter One

Skyhold was still bustling.

Despite the disbanding of the Inquisition, there were still many things left to do before the organization could truly be said to be finished. There were territories to hand over calmly, soldiers and scouts to be paid off and helped back into society, merchants to be resettled, mages to be housed, templars to be helped in finding their new place in the new Divine's regime. Not to mention the prospect of what the Inquisitor herself would now do. That, at least, was close to completion.

Josephine bit back a sigh as she listened to the representatives nit-pick at every detail in the contract already agreed upon. This had been weeks, months, in the making, and yet suddenly there were objections. Not from the other signatory, but from the men he had sent to confirm the contract and have it signed and notarized here in the presence of the Inquisition.

"Gentlemen, I fail to see why this is being brought up again," she said as calmly as she could manage. "The conditions have been agreed to on both sides. Your presence here is simply to confirm the contract and witness the signing."

"It is a matter of honor, Ambassador Montilyet," the older of the two men told her. "For our prince to agree such terms, that of ending a war, merely for the prospect of marriage? It is not acceptable to the nobility of our city."

"It is acceptable to your prince," she pointed out. "The prestige of this marriage far outweighs the dishonor of your continued attacks upon the beleaguered city miles to the south of yours, not to mention the end of the disruption in trade which has impacted your own merchants considerably in past years."

"Our prince is young still," the older ambassador insisted, waving a hand as though to dismiss his ruler's decision entirely. "He does not yet understand how to work with the nobility."

"Indeed?" Josephine gave him a polite smile. "I was under the impression that Prince Sebastian is highly thought of in Starkhaven. If things are as you say, then perhaps it is unsafe for us to send our Inquisitor to be his wife."

The younger of the two men frowned, stepping forward half a step with a sharp gesture to silence his colleague.

"That will not be necessary, ambassador," he said smoothly. "I believe my colleague merely wishes to state that the end to this conflict does not sit well with all those the Inquisitor will soon be living amongst."

"You believe her presence will somehow exacerbate this?" Josephine asked, raising her brows. "That she is incapable of protecting herself against any attempt to change the view by harming her?"

The two men looked awkwardly at one another.

"We have been lead to understand that the Inquisitor's injury has lessened her ability to do just that," the younger began, but Josephine was already shaking her head.

"Come with me, gentlemen," she told them, rising from her seat to lead the pair from her office and across the great hall.

Around them, men and women were working together to dismantle the finery of the Inquisition, preparing to give up Skyhold to the elements and leave it to fall back into the state in which they had found it only a few years before. The two Starkhaven ambassadors kept pace with her, but she knew they would be marveling at the treasures being taken down from the walls - the shining gold mosaics, the colossal dragon skull, the banners and pennants of the various noble houses that had promised unending support during the crisis and beyond. Though all these things were to be packed away or returned to their owners in the coming weeks, they were still a powerful sign of the favor the Inquisition had gathered over the few years they had been in operation. Josephine had no doubt that this little reminder of just who they were dealing with would sink into the minds of the little men trying to amend a contract already agreed for their own gain.

She lead them out onto the parapet of the main stairs into the great hall, shading her eyes from the bright sunshine as she looked down into the courtyard, knowing what she would find there.

"Ah. As you can see, gentlemen, the Inquisitor is not as defenseless as you have been lead to believe."

She watched them as they stepped forward to view the activity in the courtyard below. Anne Trevelyan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, was sparring with Iron Bull and the Chargers. Though the world knew she had lost her arm to the Anchor that had aided her in closing the Breach and ending Corypheus for good, there was no sign of any weakness in her as she spun about the wide space with graceful agility. The prosthetic Dagna had created for her - a composite of refined lyrium and mechanical parts - was as much a part of her as her arm had once been; there was no indication that she found it difficult to wield her daggers or her bow in the rough and tumble of the melee below them.

"Forgive me, Ambassador Montilyet, but ..." The younger man seemed to be shaken as he spoke. "I had heard that the Inquisitor had lost her arm?"

"Do you think the Inquisition so poor that we cannot give our Inquisitor exactly what she needs?" Josephine countered with innocent courtesy. "The finest minds worked on the problem and, as you can see, created a solution."

The older of the two was staring down at the mixed race melee, a frown still on his weathered face. Josephine made a mental note of the well-hidden dismay in his eyes. This one had been hoping to tell the world that Inquisitor Trevelyan was a broken woman, and unsuitable to be the Princess of Starkhaven. She would have to pass that onto Leliana quickly.

"That is marvelous," the younger said, and he seemed to be genuine in his compliment. "The naysayers on the council have made much of her injury these past months. I am glad that we will be able to report such good news to counter them."

"The Inquisitor's injury was never a deciding factor in your prince's offer of marriage," Josephine said, letting a little sternness show through. "Indeed, the opinion of the nobility was never cited as a deciding factor, either. This is a marriage contract, gentlemen - a union between man and woman. Surely, as men of Starkhaven, you wish your ruler to be well settled with a good wife? I can assure you there is no better woman in the world than Anne Trevelyan."

The elder made a quiet sound that might have been agreement, turning away from the spectacle below to look upon Josephine once more.

"Your point is well made, ambassador," he said, with just the barest suggestion of reluctance in his manner. "But I maintain that to insist upon a full retreat from Kirkwall is simply folly."

"Nevertheless, that is the Inquisitor's only condition in this contract," she reminded him. "She has gracefully conceded to all Starkhaven's demands of her. Yet this one thing is beyond you?"

"A cessation of hostilities, perhaps, but not a complete ending," he began, but his younger companion interrupted him.

"Prince Sebastian has agreed, and has made the announcement already," he said, apparently reminding his colleague as much as telling Josephine herself. "Hostilities will be at an end by the date of the wedding, should the Inquisitor sign the contract today."

"I assure you that she will," Josephine told him. "But should the terms of the contract not be upheld, there will be no wedding, gentlemen. Indeed, the world will be told of Starkhaven's fickleness in keeping its word."

"Is that a threat, Ambassador Montilyet?" the older man bristled.

"No, ser, it is a promise," she said with stern emphasis. "The Inquisitor is known and respected across Southern Thedas. You would do well not to cross her, or those whose loyalty will always be to her."

"And with the Inquisition disbanded, who might those be?" he sneered.

Josephine let her lips tick upward into a winning smile.

"Well, my lord, Divine Victoria, for one," she said, and watched as his confidence withered with that little reminder.

Vivienne de Fer had been a shocking choice for Divine, but her leadership over the Chantry had certainly been decisive in the past years, not to mention the charm and skill with which she navigated the nobility of multiple countries. Anne would never have any problems, Josephine was certain - Vivienne adored the Inquisitor, their friendship having grown very close during the crisis and the year following. If Starkhaven messed Anne around, the Divine would lead the charge to make them regret it.

"Do you need me, Josephine?"

Taking her gaze away from the gentlemen from Starkhaven, Josephine looked down into the courtyard, smiling at the sight of Anne waving back up at her. The woman looked more refreshed than tired by her exertions.

"When you are ready, Inquisitor, yes," she called back. "We are prepared for you."

Anne nodded, brushing her blonde hair off her brow.

"I'll be up in a moment," was her response, her right hand already moving to her left elbow as she turned away.

"Since the Inquisitor will shortly be joining us, gentlemen, shall we return to the matter at hand?" Josephine then said, turning sharp eyes back to her companions.

The older man seemed to have lost the ability to speak for now, leaving his younger colleague to smile in agreement.

"Certainly, ambassador," he said, gesturing for her to lead the way back into the keep. "And may I say what a shame it is that the Inquisition was so strong-armed into disbanding so abruptly?"

"You may."

She still thought she could have negotiated them out of it, but Anne had finally had enough of the snide insults and backhanded politicking of the summit between Orlais and Ferelden. Josephine didn't entirely disagree with the way she had done it, either.

"The wariness of these two nations is understandable, however," she went on, nodding to Cullen as he strode past, apparently on the war path about something or other. "The Inquisition could field a larger, better equipped army than either for a good year. It did not help settle the tension between the former conqueror and conquered."

"Never thought there would be a day when Orlais and Ferelden agreed on anything," the older man muttered. "You'd never catch us standing shoulder to shoulder with them."

"Perhaps that is why you almost failed to ratify the contracted agreement today," Josephine said as sweetly as she could manage, ushering them into her office once again.

It was supremely satisfying to see the man brace as though she had slapped him, as though he had temporarily forgotten that he was not the one in the powerful position here. Indeed, he wasn't even in a powerful position in Starkhaven as far as she knew; after all, he was expendable enough to send into the Frostbacks between Ferelden and Orlais just to get a signature. That he had thought himself able to somehow end the contract agreed was nothing short of astounding.

Thankfully, the awkwardness of the following silence did not last long before the door opened to admit Lady Anne Trevelyan. Her prosthetic left arm had been replaced with the more realistic model for formal occasions, her blonde hair hastily redone to pull it back from her face. The two men from Starkhaven rose to greet her automatically as Josephine smiled.

"Lady Inquisitor, may I present the ambassadors from Starkhaven - Lord Angus Mercer, and Lord Jamis Boannan," the Antivan woman said, gesturing toward the two men. "Gentlemen, Inquisitor Trevelyan."

"Lord Mercer, Lord Boannan." Anne smiled at both of them, offering her right hand in greeting. "Welcome to Skyhold. I am sorry you find us in such a state of disarray."

"There is no need for an apology, Inquisitor," Lord Jamis, the younger of the two, said, bowing over her offered hand courteously.

"Aye, your Skyhold is in fine fettle despite the circumstances," Lord Angus added.

Behind him, Josephine raised a brow. It was interesting to note that this nobleman put on a different face to the Inquisitor than the one he had shown to her. She would have to warn Anne ahead of time to be wary of the sweetness offered to her in Starkhaven.

"Well, I am glad you find it welcoming," Anne said, moving toward the desk. "Skyhold has been a good home to me these past years, but I am looking forward to settling into my new home in Starkhaven."

"As Starkhaven is looking forward to having you, my lady," Jamis replied. "The prince desired me to deliver this letter into your hands and no others. I would hope to have a reply to deliver to him upon our return."

Anne's smile was almost shy as she took the sealed parchment from him, unaccustomed as she was to being courted, even by the man she had agreed to marry.

"You will have one," she promised the younger lord. "I trust you are both satisfied with your accommodations?"

"Aye," Angus nodded. "Even with your people dismantling everything, there is luxury to be found here. Not as fine as the palace in Starkhaven, I'll be bound, but well comforting to a man after a long journey."

"I am very pleased to hear that," Anne assured him. "I am surprised to see you here, though, Lord Angus. I was given to understand that you oppose this marriage quite vehemently."

Josephine blinked, inwardly rolling her eyes at herself. Of course Anne knew about the man; she had grown up among the politics of the Free Marches, and she was about to enter one of the more influential spheres of those politics. There was no way she would do that unprepared.

Angus looked taken aback at the polite comment offered to him on his allegiance.

"My lady, I've no objection to the marriage at all," he rushed to assure her. "The conditions of the contract have me concerned, that is all."

"Ah, yes." Anne nodded, absently scanning the contract on the desk top. "It will be so difficult to stop attacks on a city weakened by tragedy and only recently beginning to return to some semblance of normality."

Angus blanched, his eyes narrowing, but Jamis actually chuckled, stifling the sound as soon as his colleague shot a sharp glance in his direction.

"Kirkwall is not so defenseless as you seem to believe, Inquisitor," Angus began, but he had nowhere to go.

Anne's expression was calmly unmoved as she looked up at him.

"One of my closest friends is the Viscount of Kirkwall, Lord Angus," she pointed out to him. "An allied Free Marches is stronger than a Free Marches split by war and greed. There is trouble coming, I guarantee you. You will be glad of this clause before the end."

As the older man stared at her, seemingly at a loss as to how to respond to such calm assertion, Anne looked back down at the document.

"This does appear to be in order," she mused. "Though the wording has been changed in certain clauses. Josephine?"

"The changes were ours, Inquisitor," Josephine told her in a warm tone, always happy to be witness to Anne's gentle undermining of the overconfidence of nobles. "The initial language was too vague to be considered binding. We have adjusted it, and the prince has agreed to those adjustments. This is the final draft, which will be notarized when you have signed."

"I see."

Anne let her gaze fall to the single signature already in place. Smooth, firm lines that formed the cursive name Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. She had never met the man in person, but had corresponded with him through letters for almost a full year now. She knew he sought her in marriage because of the prestige of the Inquisition, and because of her near folk-legendary status as the chosen Herald of Andraste. She knew also that all she truly brought to the marriage was a womb ready to bear the next in line to the throne. But she missed the Free Marches in her bones, longing to be near her sister once again, and with no welcome back to her brother's household, this was a good choice for her future. At least as the Princess of Starkhaven, she could still have some influence on policy and politics, and perhaps mitigate some of the separation already beginning between humans and elves as Solas began his work.

She reached out, and Josephine placed the quill into her right hand, watching with wary concern as she wrote her own name carefully. Learning to write all over again was proving difficult, but Anne was confident that she could at least sign her name with grace. She was not wrong, exactly, but the signing took longer than either woman would have liked.

Still, when it was done, her name lay next to Sebastian's at the foot of the contract, both copies signed and sealed, with the notary moving forward to add their signature and seal to the document to bind it legally.

"I understand the wedding has been arranged for Bloomingtide," Anne said, turning back to the two ambassadors. "I will, of course, be sure to arrive ahead of time."

"Certainly, my lady," Jamis answered. He seemed relieved to have the document signed and his mission fulfilled. "I am sure the prince and his advisors will keep you informed of all arrangements, and make certain that you and your company will be welcomed in comfort to our fair city when you arrive."

"An escort will likely meet you at Ostwick when you make land," Angus said. "The Bann will, no doubt, wish to see his sister safely to Starkhaven under his own banner."

Anne raised a brow at this rather brazen disregard of the very open contempt in which her brother held her.

"Lord Angus, my brother and I do not speak," she told him. "Starkhaven is not allying with Ostwick, but with the Inquisition, and all those who were once a part of it. I will make land at Kirkwall, where my friend will take care of the travel arrangements to Starkhaven. And if there is any hint of further hostilities now this contract has been signed, gentlemen ... the wedding will not go ahead. Am I clear?"

Josephine could have sworn she heard Lord Angus' jaw grinding as he clenched his teeth behind a passable attempt at a winning smile.

"Of course, my lady," he assured Anne, bowing slightly as he did so. "You will see nothing that will cause such a disaster to take place."

"I do not personally have to see it to know it is happening, Lord Angus," Anne said sharply. "I have the means to discover the truth of such things. You would do well not to offer me false flattery and slippery words - I grew up in the world of noble lies and schemes, just as you did."

The man, to Josephine's delight, seemed genuinely abashed to have been caught out in such a false reassurance. He cleared his throat, bowing to Anne once again.

"My apologies, my lady. The world is changing, and I am an old man."

"That is no excuse for rudeness and deception, Lord Angus, but I accept your apology," Anne allowed. "Perhaps you should warn your compatriots ahead of time that I am not the simpering idiot my brother has always maintained me to be."

"Aye, I can see that," Angus agreed.

"You will be fine addition to our prince's court," Jamis stepped in hurriedly. "There is always need of a calm head on strong shoulders in such a position."

Anne smiled, seemingly brushing aside her warning to the elder nobleman.

"Will you join us for dinner this evening, gentlemen?" she asked. "The Inquisition is always pleased to host friends, and we will soon be the very closest of friends."

"That is most generous of you, Inquisitor," Jamis said, nodding eagerly. "We'd be honored to join you, and your people, for the evening meal."

"Then I shall see you there," Anne said with a smile. "Do excuse me, I am afraid there is still much to be done."

"Of course."

The two men bowed as she nodded to them, and only Josephine caught the exasperated roll of Anne's eyes as the Inquisitor stepped through the far door to make her way to what had once been the war room. Left alone with the ambassadors, the Inquisition's diplomat let out a satisfied huff of breath.

"It would appear your business is concluded, gentlemen," she said cheerfully. "Congratulations."

"It is a good day, ambassador," Jamis said, though the look on Angus' face betrayed his lack of agreement. "Naturally, there will be arrangements that must now be concluded, but I am sure the prince already has lines of communication with your people to make certain those are taken care of."

"Of course, Lord Jamis," Josephine assured him. "The evening meal begins at sundown - you have a few hours before you need present yourselves in the great hall. Skyhold is yours to explore."

"I look forward to it, Lady Montilyet," Angus said, rousing himself from his apparently dark thoughts. "By your leave."

"Of course."

She watched them out of the office, relaxing only when the door closed behind them. The notary handed her the Inquisition's copy of the marriage contract, sealing the other to be taken back to Starkhaven when the ambassadors left on the morrow. Though Jamis seemed eager enough for the marriage, and the prince had been nothing less than delightful throughout the process, the behavior of Lord Angus Mercer left her a little uneasy. She was not certain she was happy to send Anne into a city where the allegiance of many of the noble was so fluid.

"Don't look so dour, Josie."

Josephine looked up, almost laughing to find Anne standing in her office once again. Apparently there hadn't been anything the Inquisitor needed to do in the war room; she had just needed an escape.

"I am a little disturbed by Lord Mercer's attitude," she confessed to the Inquisitor.

"The Mercers are known for their love of battle and conflict," Anne reminded her. "No doubt he has business prospects that would be greatly improved if Kirkwall was brought down. But he is not the only noble in Starkhaven, Josie. There are plenty of others like Jamis, I am sure."

"And are you sure this is what you want?" Josephine asked, needing to hear her say it again.

Anne sighed, looking over at the window. Her expression was unreadable, except to those who knew her, and Josephine did know her. She was sad and tired, and in need of a haven to call home.

"No matter what I choose, I will always be what the people have decided to believe me to be," the blonde woman said quietly. "In Starkhaven, I can make use of it to improve matters in the Free Marches. Varric needs an ally in that city, and I can be that. It isn't as though I have another home to go to, Josie."

"You could come to Antiva with me," Josephine reminded her. "Varric would make provision for you in Kirkwall. Divine Victoria would go out of her way to see you settled and cared for, wherever you chose."

"And I love you all for that," Anne said, offering her weary smile to her friend. "But none of that would change the fact that I am very much alone in the world now. In marriage, I can at least make a friend of my husband, and through him, I will have children. I won't be lonely anymore."

"Oh, Anne ..."

Josephine moved to her, tucking an arm about her friend's waist in a fond, understanding embrace.

"If he does not love you, then he is not the man I believe him to be," she said fiercely. "For all his mistakes, Sebastian Vael has passion and warmth to share with the right woman. He has chosen you, and I believe he has chosen well. I cannot help but hope that you will be happy with him."

"That would be lovely," Anne admitted with a faint chuckle. "But I would settle for companionable friendship with my husband. He has promised me a home, Josie, and you know that's what I need. If I can help my friends at the same time, that is simply a marvelous bonus for me."

She turned, hugging Josephine affectionately.

"Thank you for doing this. It means the world that someone I consider to be as close as a sister has been overseeing all the painful details."

Josephine laughed.

"If Yvette is even half as easy to marry off as you have been, I will consider myself blessed," she teased fondly. "Go and bathe. You smell terrible."

"You're such a snob about sweat, Josie," Anne countered laughingly, drawing back with a grin. "Very well, I'm going. I'll even wear a dress tonight, to please you."

"Am I really so easy to please?"

Anne grinned at her, moving away to the door into the great hall.

"Only when it comes to me and velvet."

As the door closed behind her, Josephine felt the smile slip from her face, her eyes drifting down to the marriage contract on her desk. She knew this was what Anne wanted. The prince wanted it. Even Varric supported the principle behind it. So why did it feel as though she had just sold her friend into a lifetime of danger, just for the sake of a single city?

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke: Lovers In A Dangerous Time

FENRIS THE INQUISITOR OFFICIALLY BEGINS. For @dadrunkwriting​ Friday!

Tiny little bit of smut here. 

Read on AO3 instead (~4900 words). 

*********************

Fenris padded silently through the woods. The air was fresh and cool with rain, and it was something of a relief; it had been an unusually dry spring on the island of Alamar, and the dampness of the leaves and grass beneath his bare feet was something of a relief.

He slowed as he approached a dilapidated cabin tucked into a small clearing. He removed his gloves, then pressed one lyrium-lined palm to the door.

He waited until he heard the soft snick of the magical lock, then pushed open the door and stepped inside. His gaze darted around the small cabin until he found her seated on the threadbare carpet in front of the fire, with her mabari sleeping at her side.

His shoulders loosened slightly, and he pushed back his hood. “There was no more of that sweetened bread you like,” he said. “But I fetched the post.”

Hawke looked up from the scarlet kerchief and needle in her hands. “Damn,” she said. “Well, that’s all right. I can go next week.”

Fenris shook his head as he hung his damp cloak by the fireplace. “No need. I will go.”

Hawke raised one eyebrow at him as she continued her embroidery. “You know I’m perfectly capable of going to town to run errands, right?”

“I did not say you weren’t.” Fenris placed the letters on the small table, then settled himself beside her on the carpet.

She smiled at him, then shifted close and kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s go together, then,” she murmured. “I want some of Gregor’s orange ice cream.”

Fenris pursed his lips. “It’s too cold for ice cream.”

Hawke laughed and bumped him with her shoulder. “What kind of fool are you? It’s never too cold for ice cream.” She finished another delicate stitch on the kerchief.

Fenris nibbled the inside of his cheek. He had a suspicion about the owner of the confectionery in Amaranthine, but he knew Hawke wasn’t going to like it.

Finally he sighed. “Hawke… I’m fairly certain Gregor knows who you are.”

She frowned. “How could he? I’m fairly sure the last time I used magic was when I enchanted the front door.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But… I believe he knows. He made a remark that concerns me.” Gregor had been as friendly as usual when Fenris has passed by the confectionery this afternoon, but he’d made a comment about “you and the missus come ‘ere from Kirkwall” when Fenris knew for a fact that they hadn’t told anyone they’d lived in Kirkwall three years ago.

Hawke’s frown deepened further. Then she shrugged dismissively. “Well, if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. He hasn’t called any Templars in the seven months we’ve been living here.”

“He doesn’t know where we live,” Fenris reasoned. “And we go into town so irregularly, he wouldn’t know when -”

“Fenris.” She reached up and stroked his chin with her thumb. “Everyone isn’t a threat. They can’t be, or else we’d both be dead.” She dropped her hand and her gaze back to the kerchief in her lap. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry so much.”

He gazed at her with an uncomfortable mix of irritation and affection. She made it sound so easy, as though he could just shut off the constant low-level anxiety that hounded his heels as surely as the Chantry was still hounding hers. Besides, he knew Hawke wasn’t as calm as she always pretended to be. He wasn’t the only one who was always just a little bit… worried.

It would be unkind to say so, however, and Fenris was loathe to pick a fight over something so seemingly innocuous as a maker of ice cream. He would just have to be extra cautious around Gregor, that was all. And he certainly wouldn’t be allowing Hawke to go to Amaranthine by herself next week.

He watched for a while as she continued her careful stitching. “Would you like me to read the post to you?” he asked.

Her frown instantly cleared, and she grinned at him. “Ooh, yes. You know I could listen to that voice of yours all day.”

He smirked at her lascivious tone, then rose to his feet and fetched the letters, all of which were simply addressed to ‘Leto’. He ripped open the first one as he sat beside her on the carpet. “All right. This first one is from Isabela.”

Hawke perked up. “That saucy bitch. Let’s hear it. I hope she’s been doing exciting things without us.”

Fenris hummed an acknowledgement, then read the letter to her. It seemed that Isabela had contracted a particularly interesting disease during her raids on the Rialto Bay, and that she would have liked their ‘most purr-fect friend’s particular healing skills’.

Hawke cackled at this. “Nasty tart,” she said fondly. “I bet she spread that disease to her crew as well. I’m glad I never got anything from her.”

“As am I,” Fenris drawled as he opened the second letter. His eyebrows rose as he took in the signature. “This one is from Stroud.”

“Oh. Shit,” Hawke said, her manner instantly shifting from sunny to serious. “When did we last hear from him? Ten months ago? Eleven?”

“Over a year now,” Fenris said.

Hawke raised her eyebrows, then ran a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “Damn. All right. Um… all right, let’s hear it.”

She was right to be concerned; the contents of the letter were ominous. When they’d last seen Stroud, he’d agreed to help Hawke and Varric learn more about red lyrium and its insidious properties, but the letter mentioned nothing of that. Instead, Stroud had written that he had to go to Weisshaupt immediately to speak with his commander, a mage named Clarel. The terse letter ended with a promise to contact Hawke again when he had further news to share.

By the time Fenris had finished reading the letter, Hawke’s forehead was creased with worry. “Fuck. That does not sound good,” she muttered. She silently worked a few more stitches into her kerchief before lifting her gaze to Fenris’s face. “He didn't mention red lyrium at all. What are Warden friends for if they can’t look into your business for you while you lounge in a cabin in the woods?”

Fenris gently squeezed her arm, but he wasn’t sure how to comfort her. The oddly brusque letter from Stroud followed an increasingly ominous trickle of news that was making its way to Fenris’s ears during their infrequent trips to Amaranthine: news about the civil war in Orlais, including an entire alienage being massacred in Halamshiral, as well as the ongoing strife between mages and Templars and some very disturbing rumours about the Templars splitting off from the Chantry altogether. At least things in Kirkwall had been relatively stable when they’d last heard from Aveline a few weeks ago.

To that end, the final letter was one that would hopefully cheer Hawke up. Fenris began to tear it open. “This one is from Varric,” he told her. “Shall I…?”

Hawke nodded. “Yes please. But first, I’m finally finished with this thing…” She trailed off as she snipped a loose thread from her embroidery, then rolled the kerchief into a narrow band and held out her hand expectantly.

Fenris smiled and extended his right arm. With a few deft movements, Hawke tied the kerchief around his wrist.

He rotated the kerchief and read the message she’d embroidered: Rynne Hawke was here.

Fenris huffed in amusement. “That’s very romantic, Hawke. You have my thanks.”

She snickered, then rolled back the edge of the scarf. “This part is for your eyes only.”

He peered at the message she’d sewn into the underside of the scarf, which lay flush against his wrist.

I am yours, forever and a day. - RH xoxo

He looked up and met her warm amber eyes. “You stole the words from my mouth,” he murmured.

She grinned slowly at him and slid closer until she was sitting in his lap. “Well, you stole my heart with your bloody warrior’s hands,” she retorted. “Fair’s fair.”

He grinned back at her and stroked her cheek. “I suppose you are correct,” he whispered, and he kissed her raspberry-red lips.

She slid her arms around his neck as they kissed, and Fenris relaxed into the fleeting sweetness of the moment. The crackling of the fire and Toby’s snuffling snores were familiar and soothing sounds, and with his eyes blissfully closed, he could almost imagine that they were back in Hawke’s mansion in Kirkwall.

She gently broke their kiss and nuzzled his cheek. “You’re a funny one,” she whispered.

“How so?” he asked.

She stroked the kerchief on his wrist. “This whole scarf thing,” she said. “Always wanting a new one when the old one gets frayed.”

He huffed softly. “You have your ring, I have my scarves.” He rubbed the ruby-and-onyx ring that adorned her left hand.

“That’s true,” she breathed. Then she kissed him again.

A few minutes later, she breathed a happy little sigh against his cheek. “Are you ready to read me that letter from my favourite dwarf?”

He nodded, and Hawke shifted in his lap so he could tear the letter open and read it out loud.

His stomach instantly dropped at Varric’s first line.

Leto,

Bad news. That Seeker woman, Cassandra Pentaghast, came back to Kirkwall. She’s asking questions again; maybe she just likes hearing my charming voice. Also said something about the Templars leaving the Chantry and ‘peace talks’ between the mages and the Templars. She wants me to talk to Divine Justinia, if you can believe it. So it looks like I’m going on a little cross-country trip to the Frostback Mountains, and you know how much I love trips to the mountains.

Shit is getting weird. Stay where you are and keep your heads down. I’ll be fine. I’ve talked myself out of worse scrapes than this.

 - V. T.

P.S. You think the Divine is a fan? Maybe a signed copy of ‘Swords and Shields’ will butter her up.

Hawke’s fingers were biting into Fenris’s arm by the time he finished reading the letter. “Maker’s fucking balls,” she said. Her eyes were huge when they found his face. “He’s being taken to talk to the Divine? What does that mean? Is he under arrest? Is it because of the whole Chantry-blowing-up thing? But they can’t arrest him, the only stupid things he ever did were because I made him do them!” She pushed herself to her feet and began pacing around the cabin.

Toby sat up, awakened and alarmed by her sudden movement, and Fenris rose to his feet as Hawke continued to pace. “What do Seekers even do, anyway?” she demanded. “They’re worse than the Templars, right? They come around when the Templars haven’t been strict enough. That’s why they went to talk to Varric the first time. So that’s… that’s bad, right? That can only mean something bad.”

Fenris took Hawke’s hands and pulled her to a stop. “Hawke -”

“We have to go help him,” she interrupted. “He - Varric’s only - he was a bystander,” she said. “All of you were just bystanders. You didn’t do anything. It was all me. Anders wouldn’t have - I should have known he would blow up the Chantry, I could have stopped him. And Varric -”

“Hawke, stop,” Fenris said sharply. “We have been over this countless times. Anders’s stupidity was not your fault.”

“But Varric being there was my fault,” she insisted. “He only ever got into trouble because of me.” She pulled one hand from his grip and scratched absently at her left-side ribs. “They can’t arrest him. I won’t let them.”

Fenris gently pulled her hand away from her side. Now was probably not the time to remind her how many times their erstwhile band of misfits - including Fenris himself - had dragged her into trouble. “Varric said to stay hidden,” he said. “He has always wanted you to stay hidden and safe.”

“Oh, fuck that,” she exclaimed. “Varric has spent years lying for me. I’m not going to let him get thrown into Chantry jail as well.” She pulled her hand away from him walked over to the bed. “What is Chantry jail even like? I bet they force you to pray all the time. Maybe they make you lick the feet of all the Andraste statues.” She crouched beside the bed and reached under it.

Fenris fell to his knees and grabbed her wrist before she could lift the loose floorboard and pull out her staff. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “We can’t just go chasing after him. It’s not safe.”

“Fenris, nowhere is safe,” Hawke said. “We’ve been hiding like rats for years. We might as well go and save Varric for all the good this hiding has been worth.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You just told me five minutes ago to stop worrying because everything is fine. Is that not what you said?”

She wrested her wrist from his grip. “That was before I knew Varric needed help!” she yelled.

Fenris sat back on his heels and silently eyed her angry face. After a few tense heartbeats, her expression softened, and she shuffled closer to him and squeezed his thigh. “Fenris, please. We have to go find Varric. What if something happens to him while we just sit here on our asses twiddling our thumbs? We can’t wait for news. I can’t.”

She was scratching again at her left-side ribs. Fenris pried her fingers away from her side once more. “Hawke,” he said quietly, “Varric and I spoke about this. He knew this might happen. He doesn’t want you getting involved -”

“You spoke about this?” she said sharply. “What do you mean?”

Fenris sighed. She wasn’t going to like this. “The first time that Seeker went to talk to him, Varric thought it was odd when she left him in Kirkwall with no repercussions. He suspected she might come back someday. We agreed that it would be best if-”

“You agreed?” Hawke said. She leaned away from him and folded her arms. “Since when do you decide what’s best for me? Who am I, my mother sitting in the mansion while I run around doing all her bloody-”

“No,” Fenris interrupted. “Quite the opposite, in fact.” His temper was starting to rise along with her voice, and he had to fight to keep his tone calm as he spoke. “You have a difficult time sitting out. And… you are impulsive. You act without thinking. But the risks in this case are too great.”

“This isn’t me wanting to do some clever prank involving cats and pants, Fenris,” she snapped. She pushed herself to her feet and glared down at him. “This could be Varric’s life on the line!”

“You don’t know that,” Fenris retorted as he rose to his feet.

“Neither do you!” she yelled. “What if those Seekers torture him for information or something? You don’t know what they’re capable of! This Cassandra Pentaghast person sounds like a real piece of work from what Varric’s letters said. I think the risks to him are greater than the risks to us.”

“And how would you know?” Fenris demanded.

Hawke slumped in exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

Fenris folded his arms. “How would you know what the risks are? You have been pulling the wool over your own eyes for years. You act as though every person we dare to talk to isn’t a possible bounty hunter for the Chantry. That every night we spend in the same place doesn’t pose a risk of discovery. It is a farce, Hawke,” he shouted. “You cannot fathom the number of times I have guided us away from prying eyes that would sell you out for the pleasure of seeing the mage-loving Champion of Kirkwall burned!”

The tiny cabin was ringing with the echoes of his voice. He breathed hard through his nose as he took in her expression.

Her face was pale, and her eyes were huge and hurt. “You’re just being paranoid,” she said quietly.

She sounded uncertain. Fenris’s frustration was instantly softened by a wash of guilt. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Hawke…”

She shook her head and backed away from him, then walked over to the fireplace and lifted his cloak from its hook.

He frowned as donned the cloak. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” she said. “For a walk in the woods. I can do that much on my own, can’t I?” Without waiting for a response, she pulled up the hood, then walked out and slammed the door behind her.

Fenris glared at the door, then sat on the carpet in front of the fire. “She’d better be back in five minutes,” he said threateningly to Toby. If she wasn’t, he would go out after her.

Toby leaned against his side and whined softly, and Fenris scowled at the big mabari. “You know I am right,” he said haughtily. “She is incautious and rash. But this is a delicate situation. We cannot go plowing in like a bronto in a pottery shop.”

Toby whimpered once more and licked his hand. Fenris twisted his lips in annoyance, then sighed. He understood Hawke’s concerns; he could see the danger Varric was in just as much as she could, and he was not immune to the fear for their friend’s wellbeing. But Varric’s letter was proof that Hawke was still being hunted, perhaps just as fiercely as when Anders had first demolished the Kirkwall Chantry.

He ran his fingers through his hair. He had good reasons for wanting to keep Hawke out of danger, the most selfish of them being that he couldn’t bear the thought of living without her if the worst should come to pass. But the sight of her scratching her left side, the side where her tattoo twined and twisted from her ribs up to her shoulder blade and back, a constant reminder of every person she blamed herself for losing or unwittingly driving away…  

He sighed once more, then wrinkled his nose at Toby. “There is no need to look so smug,” he informed the hound.

Toby wagged his tail and gave a tiny woof.

Fenris frowned for a moment longer, then pushed himself to his feet. But before he could reach for the door, the magical lock clicked.

Hawke pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her rain-dampened shoulders were hunched, and she looked very contrite. “Fenris, I’m sor-”

“We will go to help Varric,” Fenris said.

She stopped mid-speech and gaped at him. Then Fenris stumbled back as she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She buried her face in his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whimpered. “Thank you, thank you, Fenris, thank you-”

He shook his head, even as he hugged her in return. “We must be careful,” he told her fiercely. “We can’t just run off right this instant. We must at least try to have a plan.”

“Of course we will! Plans are my specialty,” she quipped.

He pulled away from her and cupped her face in his hands. “I am serious, Hawke. I can’t bear the thought of you being captured. I need you to promise me you’ll follow my lead.”

Her smile faded slightly as she gazed back at him. “You’re… you’re serious about this. Am I really that bad?”

He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “Please, Rynne. Just promise me.”

She frowned, but finally she nodded her head. “All right, fine. Whatever you say.” Then her signature cheeky smirk lifted the corner of her lips. “If you’re being the boss, does that mean you’ll use your bossy voice with me? You know how much I love -”

“Shut up, Hawke,” he drawled.

She laughed brightly, then hopped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. Moments later, they were on the bed, and Hawke was simultaneously fighting to remove her cloak while fumbling at the laces of Fenris’s trousers.

He broke away from her ravenous kiss. “We need to plan this out,” he said severely. “It would be best if we avoid Amaranthine on our way to the Frostback Mountains. And we absolutely cannot pass through Lothering, you’ll be recognized -”

She slid her hand beneath his shirt and lightly stroked his nipple. “Whatever you want,” she breathed. “We can do whatever you want starting tomorrow. But for now, just give me this.”

Fenris bit his lip as her hand slid down his abdomen. He understood her motives all too well: she never needed an excuse for sex, especially not in the wake of an argument. But this was also her preferred method of wiping away her worries about what was to come, even if it was just a temporary reprieve.

But he shouldn’t indulge this right now, not if she wanted to get moving on short notice. They needed to plan their route, and they would need to pack for a long and difficult journey, and they would need to purge this place of any signs of their presence when they left -

Hawke slipped her fingers into his trousers and stroked his cock, and Fenris fell back onto the mattress. “Fine,” he groaned. “I’ll do as you like. For now.”

She grinned at his forbidding tone, then hauled his trousers down and took his cock into her mouth, and Fenris lifted his hips with a gasp of pleasure. If Hawke wanted to forget their troubles for a short but blissful hour, he supposed he could allow it.

Perhaps this would allow him to forget their troubles as well.

**************************

One month later…

“No.”

“Hawke-”

“Fenris, no. I’m not staying here while you go off without me, it’ll take hours for you to scope out this stupid Conclave thing and come back!”

“You cannot come,” Fenris declared. “They are searching for you. You cannot risk getting any closer to this lion’s den.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, and Fenris grabbed her arms. “You promised me, Hawke,” he hissed. “You said you would do as I asked. This is what I am asking of you: stay here, and stay hidden. I will return in two hours.”

“And what if you don’t?” she hissed in return. “What am I supposed to do then?”

“Run,” Fenris said simply.

She stared at him for a second, then shoved him lightly in the chest. “You’re fucking joking. You must be. You think I would run away and leave you? I swear, Fenris, if something happens to you -”

He tilted her chin up and kissed her hard, cutting off her foolish words, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Please,” he begged. “Stay here. Fasta vass, Hawke, if they caught you, I… They will drown in the rivers of blood I would spill to free you from their clutches. Do not make me do that.”

He could feel her clenching her jaw beneath his palms. Finally she blew out a small breath. “Fine,” she whispered. “Fine, I’ll stay here. But if you aren’t back in two hours, I am coming after you.” She pulled away and glared at him. “I refuse to live without you, either.”

He shook his head and stroked her stubborn jawline. “You are an idiot, Hawke.”

She continued to glare at him, her fists twisted tight in his collar. “Only for you, Fenris,” she said seriously. “Only for you.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, then kissed her once more and turned away.

He hurried along the ridge of the snow-covered slope while donning his gloves and pulling up his hood. He tugged his scarf up to cover the scars on his chin, then slid silently down the tree-riddled slope toward the Temple of Sacred Ashes, thankful that Hawke’s magic would hide his tracks.

In his left hand he held one of Hawke’s old staves. He had been posing as a mage since they’d left Alamar, as Hawke was not known to associate with a male elven mage. Thus disguised, he was able to hide amongst the masses of real mages who were congregating in the Temple where this supposed Conclave was taking place.

It appeared that most people were gathering in a large main room that resembled the Kirkwall Chantry’s main floor. But from the whispers Fenris could hear, they seemed agitated.

“... don’t know what is taking so long. The Divine was supposed to appear twenty minutes ago.”

“Perhaps it’s some kind of show. They think we’ll reconcile with the bloody Templars if we remain in the same place for long enough, but good luck with that…”

Fenris idly listened to the gossip as he looked around the room for Varric or for a woman bearing Seeker Pentaghast’s description. It was hard to tell, as people were coming and going and milling around restlessly in this grand room, but Fenris was fairly sure he didn’t see either of them here.

As surreptitiously as he could, he snuck out of the main area and toward a secluded set of stairs. He followed the stairs down, but as he began to make his way to the lower floor, he began to feel… something.

Apprehension darted through his chest. The feeling was a familiar one: a very faint but uncomfortable buzz beneath his skin.

Red lyrium, he thought. It had always been faintly annoying, but Fenris seemed to feel it more strongly since the fight with Knight-Commander Meredith three years ago.

But what in the Void was red lyrium doing at the Conclave?

Maybe it was a possible clue as to Varric’s whereabouts. Varric had always wanted to know more about red lyrium, and Hawke as well on Varric’s behalf, so perhaps he’d been tasked with helping the Chantry to learn more about it.

Fenris clung to this hopeful (albeit unlikely) idea as he continued to the base of the stairs, where he was met by double doors, and by the sound of pained cries emanating from behind them.

He frowned and tiptoed over to the closed doors; the wails of pain were in an elderly woman’s voice, but it was the second voice in the room that sent a spike of disbelief through Fenris’s chest.

“Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Venhedis,” Fenris breathed. It couldn’t be. But that evil, sonorous voice was unmistakable.

Corypheus. But how was he alive? Hawke and the rest of them had killed the misbegotten magister almost three years ago. Hawke had been forced to use blood magic to do it. How the fuck was Corypheus alive?

Stroud had mentioned something about some darkspawn being able to regenerate, but Fenris had never really believed it; it was hard to come back from having your body cleaved into five separate pieces.

He wouldn’t believe it, not unless he saw it for certain. He pushed the door open a crack, and his eyes widened with growing confusion.

Grey Wardens? Their armour was unmistakable, identical to Stroud’s everyday wear.

Fenris glanced quickly around the room, and his lip curled in instinctive anger. Here in the basement of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, bold and brazen as you please, the Grey Wardens were leading a blood magic ritual involving the Divine Justinia and a strange green orb, and led by Corypheus himself.

“Who goes there?” Corypheus demanded.

A Grey Warden hauled the door open, and Fenris sank into a defensive crouch as he focused on the misshapen magister.

His eyes widened in shock. This was the source of the red lyrium vibrations: they were emanating from Corypheus himself. His body was studded with spikes of the evil red crystal, not unlike the way Meredith had looked right before the end, but somehow Corypheus was very much alive and well.

Fenris curled his lip in disgust. “You vile abomination,” he spat.

Corypheus’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “You,” he said slowly. “I have seen you before. How-”

Divine Justinia suddenly lashed out with her arm and struck the glowing green orb.

It spun through the air straight towards Fenris’s face. He ducked and instinctively lifted his hand to protect himself -

Pain. Pain like he hadn’t felt in over a decade was burning through his left hand. His head was ringing with screams - his own or the others’ in the room, he couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter because all he could feel was agony…  

And then the room itself turned inside out.

Fenris was falling, tumbling through a nightmarish landscape of floating boulders and ominous hazy mist, and the ground was rushing toward him more swiftly than should have been possible. His head was ringing, fuzzy and disoriented, and he couldn't tell which way was up or down -

He slammed into the ground with such force that he lost his breath. His head was pounding so sharply that he could feel his pulse behind his eyes. Just before he lost consciousness, he had one last fleeting thought: at least he’d gotten Hawke to promise him that she would stay out of the Temple.

He could only pray that she had actually listened to his wishes.

[mahalzevran]

DA 20+ Questions

Tagged by @antivan-surana​ thanks! Tagging @situationnormal​ @the-dread-doggo​ @acepavus​ @aroundofgwent​ @lakambaeni​ @kxnways​ @fuckbioware​ (no pressure ofc) and anyone who wants to?

The rest is under a read more because it’s long

01) Favourite game of the series?

Origins, only because you got less and less op as a mage as the games went on. I love all the games tbh.

02) How did you discover Dragon Age?

My friend got my sister into it. They kept talking and talking about it so finally I was like “ok lets see what the big deal is” and here I am now

03) How many times you’ve played the games?

I’ve done Origins twice fully, DA2 four times fully (omg I didn’t realize this until now lol) and DA:I just once fully. I have one unfinished playthrough of Origins with a Cousland, and I’m in the middle of maybe two of DA:I. I think I’ve gone back and replayed certain parts of both Origins and DA:I plenty of times.

04) Favourite race to play as?

Elf I guess? Though I’ve only fully played as a human and elf. I’m in the middle of a dwarf playthrough and I’m thinking of doing a qunari one in the future. It might change idk.

I just really liked playing as an elf in Origins so that’s why I got into elves. But the funny thing is, I wasn’t even thinking of playing as an elf when I played for the first time. I wanted to play as a human. I just did it on a whim.

05) Favourite class?

Mage, hands down. Realistically, they’re the most versatile class. They can do range and melee since anyone can learn how to fight with weapons. But the last two games won’t let you so :)

Also, this stems from the fact that I’ve been a harry potter fan since I could remember.

06) Do you play through the games differently or do you make the same decisions each time?

In my full, proper playthroughs that I’ve finished, it’s slightly different but still the same basic ideas. Sided with mages, agreed with Anders, etc.

But I am planning to try an evil playthrough in the future so

07) Go-to adventuring group?

DA:O (I have two)

Leliana, Wynne, Shale - the OG crew; they were my main crew in my first playthrough and it was a pretty even party

Zevran, Leliana, Alistair - the elf crew; esp. with Rhian they’re all elves because I saw a theory that Leliana is half elf and I’m down

DA2

It’s a mixed bag. If I’m not playing as a mage, I usually take Anders a lot because we need a healer and Merrill can’t heal. I tend not to take Sebastian as much after I max his friendship. After Sebastian, I take Aveline the least. Other than that I just mix it up. Unless I’m romancing someone, then I take them every time.

I’d love to take Anders, Fenris, and Merrill out more often but I hate how mean they all are to each other (looking @ u bioware 👀)

DA:I

My first playthrough, I mixed it up a lot in the beginning but then I ended up bringing Solas, Cole, and Blackwall a lot near the end for some reason?

I love taking Vivienne, Dorian, and Solas out, especially if I’m playing a mage, because it’s such a pretty fireworks show

In general though, if I’m romancing someone I take them with me almost always.

08) Which of your characters did you put the most thought into?

I think it’s a tie between Rhian and Lu.

09) Favourite romance?

To no one’s surprise, it’s Zevran :3

Solas is second because I just really like that angst.

10) Have you read any of the comics/books?

I’ve read The Silent Grove, Those Who Speak, and Until We Speak (because someone gifted me the Omnibus) and The Calling.

I also have Hard in Hightown, which I should probably read lol, and the art book of inquisition.

11) If you read them, which was your favourite book?

The Calling solely because of my mom Fiona and my dad Duncan. 

12) Favourite DLCs?

Awakening because I love everyone and its also really funny that Rhian, who is 19 at that point, had to basically babysit people older than her and also run a whole arling.

I love both Legacy and Mark of the Assassin. Mark of the Assassin was really funny (though I hated the stealth part). I love Legacy specifically because when I was fighting Corypheus, both Varric and Anders K.O.’d and it was just me and Carver. It was a special family moment bringing down a whole entire magister together. I also hc that that was canon and it brought Kaia and Carver closer together.

13) Things that annoy you.

I’m gonna talk about the game bc if this is about the fandom, then that’s a whole other thing.

Anders’ writing for one. It doesn’t make sense that he’d approve of giving Fenris back to Danarius. And also that he wouldn’t tell f!Hawke that he’s bi? Then there’s the fact that Anders, Fenris, and Merrill all don’t get along when they have a lot in common.

Anything that was written by Lukas Krisdkjsdhkdk. Aveline, Sera, etc. he did a really bad job.

Also didn’t like that mages got less OP in the last two games.

There’s also the tone-deafness? Dorian, a brown man, saying slavery is ok. And also there’s the dialogue between Solas and Vivienne where Solas supposedly “owns” Vivienne. I think he says something like “may you learn”? Solas, a white person, saying this to Vivienne, a black woman, when there’s obvious colorism in Thedas? I think not.

There’s probably other but I can’t think of them right now.

14) Orlais or Ferelden?

Orlais is too snooty and Ferelden doesn’t season their food. I pick Seheron and Laysh because that’s where the Asians are at.

15) Templars or mages?

Mages

16) If you have multiple characters, are they in different/parallel universes or in the same one?

Originally, my canonverse was Rhian, Kaia, and Luwalhati. Alden and Bolin were part of an AU. Then Alden finagled his way in there, then I decided to have Bolin in there too. So now i have twin Hawkes and Bolin is part of the Inquisition (if he’s a companion or not, I haven’t thought about)

I have plenty of other OCs that I’m planning on, but they’re currently sorted into a different universe.

17) What did you name your pets? (mabari, summoned animals, mounts, etc)

Pikamon for the Origins mabari. It’s a mix between the names of my two dogs, Pikachu and Cinnamon

Cinnachu for the DA2 mabari, also a mix of Pikachu and Cinnamon.

Lu’s mount is the royal sixteen (hart), which is given to you by Clan Lavellan if you manage to keep them alive iirc, and its name is Luntian, the tagalog word for green which is her favorite color. (In a teen!Lu AU, her mount is the bog unicorn bc she’s an edgelord)

18) Have you installed any mods?

It would be more surprising if I didn’t. How else would I manage to have my characters look like the’re poc?? And also get rid of whitewashing and have some continuity. I usually just do cosmetic mods if it’s my first playthrough. Then I do like “cheats” after I finish the game fully.

Fun fact, I once spent like 2+ hrs modding Origins to have the Zev romance the way I want. I also stayed up until like 5am trying to make Solas look like his concept art lol (it didn’t really work)

19) Did your Warden want to become a Grey Warden?

Rhian didn’t not want to become a warden. She read about them and thought they were an honorable order, but she didn’t expect to ever have a chance to become one. Her goal was to just go up in the Circle hierarchy, maybe even become First Enchanter. Then when the time came, she didn’t really have much of a choice.

20) Hawke’s personality?

Kaia is blue and Alden is purple

21) Did you make matching armor for your companions in Inquisition?

At first, I didn’t get what the big deal was with crafting. It didn’t seem fun at all lol. Then I tried it and was hooked. I don’t have them matching, but I do tend to try to match my Inquisitor with their LI in some way.

My usual procedure for armor in Inquisition is like this. I make everyone wear heavy armor and pick the materials that have the highest attributes, not caring how ridiculous the colors are. Then I go to tint them using a guide for each companion’s color scheme. This is the same for helmet but I usually have them turned off or have no one wearing one.

The only exception is Varric, Cole, and Blackwall. I have Varric wear the rogue armor that looks like his DA2 outfit, and Cole and Blackwall wear the Grey Warden heavy armor. I tint the grey warden armor using a guide for its color scheme.

I have Bull, Vivienne, and Cole wear their unique helmets.

22) If your character(s) could go back in time to change one thing, what would they change?

Rhian - She’d probably want to re-do how she told Zevran that she wasn’t exactly dead.

Kaia - Taken Quentin’s threat more seriously and killed him before he got to Leandra

Alden - He has no regrets

Luwalhati - wouldn’t have taken Sam and Wis with her so they wouldn’t have had to have died in the conclave explosion

Bolin - None, all of his decisions led him to Dorian and he’s happy with that.

23) Do you have any headcanons about your character(s) that go against canon?

They’re all at least part Seheron?

I also hc that neither Carver nor Bethany die because Kaia was able to cast a barrier on both of them before the ogre got them. Then they both became Grey Wardens because Carver contracted the taint in the expedition and wouldn’t join the Wardens unless Bethany came with him too.

Another hc I have is that Sebastian didn’t leave when Anders was spared and stayed to help out. But he went his separate way after because he still didn’t approve of sparing him.

Oh shoot, I almost forgot. The most against canon thing I’ve done probably? Rhian didn’t do the Ritual but she did slay the archdemon without dying. Rhian’s an arcane warrior, so when she slayed it, she was partway in the fade. Being partway into the fade was enough for her essence, I guess, to survive it. But she’s not mortal anymore and kind of a spirit now? So she periodically has to chill in the fade because being in the real world takes a toll on her.

25) Who did you leave in the Fade?

In the game, it was Stroud. I killed Loghain and no way is Alistair gonna be trapped in there. Fiona will be sad. So I made Alistair king in the game only, so Stroud was the one that was left.

This is another off canon thing I did. In my actual canon, Alistair is the warden contact. The Hawke that comes to the Inquisition is both Kaia and Alden. Alden brings Fenris with him because he doesn’t go anywhere without his Boo-Boo. Bethany and Carver also come because Weisshaupt was being weird and it seemed like they would be safer in the Inquisition. Lu + her party, Alistair, Kaia, Alden, Fenris, Bethany, and Carver all come to Adamant. Because there’s so many people, everyone was able to escape the Fade. No one is left behind.

26) Favourite mount? The nugs! All of them :) 

Though I don’t really use the mounts lol

[carterhaughs]

vir lath sa’vunin

The end of the Fifth Blight heralds a new dawn for Ferelden and her peoples, but consolidating support for the young new king will not be easy, and rebuilding would be an arduous task even without the threat of residual darkspawn and fresh new horrors lingering in the wake of the Archdemon. Aelinor Surana and Alistair Theirin will need all the strength, savvy, cunning, and knowledge they can muster if they are to heal their country's hurts. With help from friends new and old and their love for each other, they will face down adversity as they always have: together.

Read @ Ao3

Note: "Vir Lath Sa'vunin" is a line from Leliana's Song - the one she sings to the warden after Zathrian and/or the Lady of the Forest die during the Nature of the Beast quest line. It is an old elven song that Keeper Lanaya may share with you in the form of a codex entry. The line means "we love one more day." 

Relevant to this chapter: There is an actual in-game conversation you can have with Anora in which she will directly ask you if you and Alistair are together. It really took me off guard because in my playthrough I was careful not to mention anything to Anora about Alistair other than that I think he would make a better king than she thought. But she was too sharp for my love to go unnoticed lol. You can see that conversation here. 

Chapter 3: A Fereldan’s Best Friend

Aelinor entered after the announcement of the arls and teyrns in attendance but before the banns. Traditionally, the king’s chamberlain would have been second only to the king, but she had feared seeming too much of an upstart by taking her place at his side, much as he had wished her to dare it. She had become chamberlain during his coronation ceremony and like his kingship it had been openly communicated to the rest of the kingdom, but there had been no separate ceremony conferring the title and responsibilities on her. This would be her first formal appearance as the chamberlain and with so many visiting dignitaries present, she could scarce afford to make mistakes.

She came in through a side door with little fanfare from the major domo as per her request, and bowing to the king, attempted to melt into the crowd and mingle with Leliana’s advice in mind. She could feel many sets of eyes on her, leering, appraising, disdaining. Her heartbeat fluttered in her throat, but she kept her spine straight and her gaze level. There were no mages here, and the only elf besides herself in attendance was Shianni, but there were a few other familiar faces. Her background being what it was and feeling the need to justify it, she inhaled deeply and approached the gaggle of chantry sisters first.

“Sister Justine!” Aelinor inclined her head in the direction of the Denerim Chantry’s curator, who was surrounded by a number of other church officials deep in conversation. “How are your studies progressing?” Sister Justine smiled and motioned her closer. Her dark blond hair was elegantly braided as usual, though there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Ever since the discovery of the Sacred Ashes’ final resting place she had likely been burning the candle at both ends.

“Lady Surana, come, we were just discussing the latest excavation in the old temple above Haven. The etchings we have made of verses long lost from the Chant are an archivist’s dream–both those you found, and those Brother Genitivi and many others have uncovered since.”

“Long lost? Or stricken?” remarked one of the other sisters with a sour expression. Justine raised an eyebrow at her.

“Wilhelmina, you know very well none of them connect to any of the Dissonant Verses, or perhaps to any verses we know of at all. Taking joy in their recovery is far from controversial.” Wilhelmina sniffed but said no more, narrowing her eyes at Aelinor. Being an elf and a mage and a public official, she was a flagrant offense to the natural order of things most conservative Andrastians adhered to, so it was hardly surprising.

“I can understand Sister Wilhelmina’s caution,” Aelinor said, hoping she would seem reasonable rather than sycophantic, little as she cared to appeal to someone so ready to hate her. “I did find a great deal of these writings in the den of dragon cultists, after all. But so long as we have veteran researchers like Sister Justine and her fellow scholars on hand, I trust they will parse the truth from the apocryphal. In any case, the authenticity of the ashes themselves can hardly be doubted. Without them, all of Denerim may have been corrupted by the Blight now, so I think we can all agree that the Maker had a hand in our deliverance, regardless of what may yet be discovered.” Though Wilhelmina stared her down obstinately, many of the other sisters looked at her thoughtfully or even nodded enthusiastically as Justine did. Leliana’s advice was working like a charm.

Suddenly all the sisters about her were bowing, and Aelinor turned to find that Alistair was standing right behind her, clad in leathers threaded with the strong geometric designs characteristic of the Alamarri. She bowed herself even as she sighed inwardly. He had not held out for very long.

“Your Majesty?”

“My dear sisters of the Chantry, I must allow you to excuse Lady Surana for a moment, as Arl Wulff desires her audience.”

“Yes, of course, King Alistair,” said Sister Justine. “Thank you again to you both for your service to the Chantry. I very much look forward to sharing my findings with you in the weeks and months to come.” Aelinor nodded and moved to Alistair’s side as they walked away. The dining hall was vast and Arl Wulff was located conveniently at its far end.

She noticed Alistair’s arm twitch at his side, no doubt out of force of habit. When they walked alone together, it was rare indeed that he did not take her arm in his own.

“Alistair...”

“Yes, my dear, I know,” he whispered. “I know being within twenty feet of me in the public eye makes you uncomfortable, but people will talk no matter what. We do not need to be miserable, merely professional.” She looked up at his face, but he was staring straight ahead and talking out of the corner of his mouth. So Leliana had managed to get through to him too. She smiled.

“No, you’re right. There have been few female chamberlains in the history of the country in any case, much less mage or elven individuals who have held the position, male or female. They were always going to talk. We can enjoy each other’s company even in public if we are discreet, which you have been. I am grateful for it.” He nodded slightly, and could not suppress a half-smile from quirking the edge of his lips.

“You should be. It’s all I can do not to kiss you right now.” She could feel her flush creeping up the back of her neck again and blessed the high embroidered collar she wore for covering up the worst of it.

“Not to worry, Your Majesty...I’ll be certain to show you how grateful I am once we’re alone.” Alistair said nothing to that and instead cleared his throat a bit too loudly and placed his hand for the briefest of moments at the small of her back, guiding her toward the upper right corner of the room below the dais where the Arl of the West Hills commanded a lively group of nobles. They quieted and bowed at the king’s approach, eying her with curiosity.

“My chamberlain, Lady Aelinor Surana.” She curtsied, and meeting their gazes afterward was not nearly as daunting as she had thought it would be. Of course, it helped to have the king at her side, but this crowd in general seemed to take her presence in better humor than many in attendance.

“How fare the West Hills, Arl Wullf?” she asked. The south had taken the brunt of the horde’s incursion, and would be slow to recover. But she did not want to shy away from the obvious.

“Poorly,” he replied, “but improving with the help of the capital. There is green there still, and the fall will yield a harvest. In the meantime, your efforts with the dwarves to lower the price of provisions for us in the Frostbacks have proven most helpful. And the horde itself is all but vanquished.”

“And yet,” said a new voice in careful, even tones, “is not much of the ‘help of the capital’ owed to Orlais? For it is their Wardens who have bivouacked there with the king’s approval.”

A new face emerged from the crowd, fair-skinned and clear-complexioned. Anora Mac Tir. Aelinor turned and regarded her levelly, but without malice.

“Lady Mac Tir, I need not remind you that while the Wardens have historically overstepped their bounds on certain occasions, their loyalty has always been to themselves and to their mission of protection against the Blight. In the West Hills, the Blight remains and is combated with their help. There is no ambiguity in it in my accounting, but I invite you to find some yourself, should you seek it.”

“If you don’t trust the Wardens’ understanding of it, I wonder what you consider mine, Anora?” Arl Wulff added gruffly. “The self-important prattle of an old man who seeks to solicit favors for his holdings? If you don’t believe me, visit my arling or any portion of the south yourself. The farmers fending off raiding parties and dying of plague will surely lay your suspicions to rest.”

“I did not mean to question the gravity of your situation,” Anora replied coolly. “Merely to point out how easily the enemy might move on us once these Wardens overstay their welcome.”

“Regardless of the loyalty of the Orlesian Wardens, under other circumstances Ferelden would have had its own force,” Alistair cut in, voice hard and sharp with anger. “But fate would have it otherwise, it seems.”

“Indeed,” replied Anora. “Fate would have them on the throne and in the palace chambers.”

Aelinor controlled her sharp intake of breath even as her heart pounded in her ears. Anora had baldly put the question to her prior to the Landsmeet–did she have feelings for Alistair, given the way she spoke of him in such glowing terms? Why did she believe an inexperienced and naive young man like himself could be king? Aelinor had merely replied that she thought Alistair would make a better king than Anora believed and the then-queen had let the matter drop. But of course, she had held onto her read on the situation. It was correct, after all. And Aelinor almost laughed aloud at the pun and how it could be taken as merely a statement of truth or as a double-entendre: a chamberlain in the palace chambers. It was meant to get a rise out of her and Alistair, but she would not let it. Hopefully, Leliana had schooled him well enough that it would not get to him either. She would have put a hand on his shoulder to remind him of the necessity of restraint but of course that would have just put proof to Anora’s thinly veiled accusation.

But before she could so much as speak, there was a commotion in the small crowd as her mabari barreled through the assembled nobles to reach her side, bumping his muzzle against her hand and squeezing in between herself and Alistair.

“What are you doing here, boy?” she said sharply. He wagged his tail and barked with gusto, then looked up at the rest of the crowd with dark, liquid eyes suggesting an innocence Aelinor knew he did not have. “Well, as he seems to have introduced himself without all due courtesy, I shall do my best to atone for him on his behalf. This is my mabari, Shadow. I managed to heal him of the Taint he contracted at Ostagar and he’s followed me ever since.”

Arl Wulff crouched down to get a better look at him and Shadow barked excitedly. “A fine beast. If I am not mistaken, he has recently sired several litters of puppies known for their resilience and ferocity as much as their sweet temper. I gave one such whelp to my daughter.”

Aelinor smiled, grateful for the sudden change in topic. Shadow was a sly creature, indeed. “Yes, he’s been helping to replenish the kennels here in Denerim when he is not at my side. His mate is Bertie, a bitch from the long line of Theirin hounds.” The other nobles gathered around eagerly to ask more questions about his pedigree and the line he was sire to, and Anora’s slight seemed all but forgotten. Aelinor looked for her in the crowd, but she was gone.

“Bertie?” asked Arl Wulff, no doubt amused at so plebian a title for a descendent of the likes of “Sentinel,” and “Duchess.”

Alistair grinned. “Yes, short for Camembertie.” His stomach growled audibly and he leaned over Shadow to speak to Aelinor above the vigorous mabari breeding discussion Shadow’s entrance had set off. “It will be time for dinner soon, thank the Maker. I wasn’t sure how much more of that I could take, but you weathered it well.”

“I’m sure we’ve not seen the last of it,” Aelinor replied, scanning the crowd for Anora and finding her near the group of chantry sisters she’d spoken with earlier. “But I think we managed to make a case for ourselves and maintain our dignity. It wasn’t just my doing, either, Alistair.”

“No, of course not! Shadow takes the lion’s share of the credit.” She rolled her eyes but his slight smile and the gentle tilt of his head in her direction told her that he knew he had done well and that her assurance was enough.

[rhetoricalrogue]

One of this week’s WiPs: DONE! For @alittlestarling, in the AU we’ve been yelling about where Vincent is a Warden Amell, Roz was raised in the Wilds alongside Morrigan, and their firstborn Bryony holds the soul of an Old God. 

Fast forward ten years post-Blight and two years after Vincent leaves his family to go look for a cure for the Wardens. Morrigan, Roz and Bryony have been rubbing elbows with Orlesian elite and are on loan to the Inquisition.  Instead of sending a letter with “hey, I’m cured” news, Vincent decides to break the good news to his family in person.

The Inquisitor was the first one to spot him. The man was tall, yet he walked with a slight hunch to his shoulders that spoke of years of habitually trying to make himself smaller to better blend in with crowds. It wasn’t unusual to see people dressed in cloaks as they moved from place to place in the fortress, but it was odd that this man still had the hood of his cloak over his head, obscured his features save for the tip of his nose from view.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her focus now completely on this stranger. He had a beaten up looking staff in his hand that he was using as a prop to lean against as he spoke with someone who pointed in the direction of the gardens and judging by the arm exposed from under his cloak as he held onto the gnarled wood, it seemed as if he were wearing Warden armor.

“Him?” Leliana had made time to come down from her rookery sanctuary more and more, spending time in the gardens with Roz and her daughter Bryony now that they had joined up with the Inquisition. It was something else to see the newcomers interact with the usually stoic Spymaster, the edges of her personality that grief and duty had honed to a razor sharpness softening into something gentler. There were even reports of hearing her sing once or twice, usually at the request of Rosalind’s daughter.

Standing on the dais, she wore that same soft smile the Inquisitor had heard of, but not yet seen for herself. She seemed years younger, her eyes shining in the light of the hall’s candelabras. “He is no threat. I am sure that we’ll speak with him in due time, but not at this moment.”

Leliana smiled again and wiped at her cheek. “He has far more important people to speak with first.”

Vincent was exhausted. Traveling non-stop when not gifted with the stamina reserves he had gotten so used to was taking its toll, but he’d made good time as a crow, traversing the bulk of the distance between where he’d been at to Skyhold by air instead of on foot. Even though he was ready to drop on his feet at any moment, there was a barely contained excitement that bubbled in his chest. Roz and Bryony were somewhere in that fortress. After two achingly long years of not seeing them, they were so close.

A lot had changed in those years apart. He’d picked up new scars and more silver had threaded its way through his hair than had been there the last time his little family had seen him. The biggest change, however, was the fact that now he was a Warden in name only. The ritual to cleanse himself of the darkspawn taint had been a huge risk, just as the Joining itself had been, but he felt lighter than he had in over a decade. His dreams were no longer plagued by nightmares and although he had come across small pockets of darkspawn on the surface, he hadn’t sensed them at all.

Vincent tightened his grip on his staff and leaned against it as he walked down the hallway a courtier had pointed him towards.  Roz had always loved the outdoors, so he had taken a gamble on asking if Skyhold happened to have a garden.  It made the most sense to him to begin his search for her there.  He took a breath: so much time had passed since they had been together, would his family still have need of him?  With all his changes, would they even still want him? It was a preposterous doubt, yet it was one he couldn’t shake.  He knew his heart: Vincent loved his daughter fiercely, and he loved Roz with every ounce of his being.  He just prayed that they felt the same towards him.

He felt a little lost as he walked the halls, the most recent injury he was still healing from making his left leg drag a bit as fatigue set in, lending him a slight limp. He had to stop several times to ask a random person if they’d seen a redheaded woman and a young child, but thankfully, everyone had pointed him in the same direction.  Normally, if he wanted to quickly find Bryony, all he had to do was listen to the song that resonated within his little girl: a song that was similar, but not quite the same as the harsh tune he remembered hearing in Denerim all those years ago as he struck down the Archdemon. The song that echoed within Bryony was lighter, sweeter, something a little girl would sing as she skipped and played. It never pulled at him the way that the darkspawn had, with claws sharp in his chest and a twisting in his gut. Rather, Bryony’s tune had felt like small hands gently pulling at his own, laughing pleas of Papa, come play! and bright sunshine warming him from the inside out.

Vincent bit at his chapped lips. If there was one thing he would miss from shaking loose of the shackles of his Warden vows, it would be the ability to sense his daughter wherever he went.

His thumb rubbed against the ring he wore on his right hand. The rosewood band was a comfort, the surface worn smooth from years of running his fingers across it, much like the worry stone Alistair used to carry with him at all times. While he may not be able to sense their daughter any longer, Vincent was certain that Roz was close. She wore the match to his ring and although she had explained that it would enable them to always find the other, his grasp on the magic infused into the bands had never been the strongest. The closest he ever came to locating her was a slight warming sensation whenever they were near but out of visual contact, almost as if she were holding onto his hand.

His already ragged nerves frayed some more. Maker, but he had missed her. All he wanted to do was draw her into his arms and never let her go, but what if…

Vincent stood up straighter and squared his shoulders. What-ifs did nothing productive. Heart in his throat, he rounded the last corner and entered what seemed to be an open inner courtyard, the smell of green growing things heavy in the air.

He saw Bryony first. She was in the center of the gardens, playing with a tall, thin looking boy wearing an oversized hat. Vincent’s chest grew tight and it took everything he had not to run to her. Oh, but how tall she had gotten! Her face still held the childish roundness that he had all but memorized before leaving, but her hair was longer, curled and styled in a manner he had never seen before. It made sense, seeing that Roz had written to him about seeking refuge in the Orlesian courts, but to see his little girl who often ran dirt-smudged and barefoot in their home with leaves in her hair and skinned knees now wearing a dainty looking dress and shiny black shoes pulled at him. She looked as if she were the daughter of some nobleman, not a weary ex-Warden apostate with far too many miles on a body that felt older than his actual years.

“Don’t turn away.” Vincent jerked back in surprise when the boy who had been just playing with Bryony showed up at his side. “Please.”

“Spirit,” he said simply, recognizing the boy for what he was now that he was closer. “Might I ask what you are?”

“Compassion,” the spirit replied. “Though everyone here calls me Cole. I like it. Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt your family, they like me and I like them.  You haven’t seen them in some time.”

“No, I haven’t.” He relaxed a little, but Vincent’s eyes remained glued on Bryony, who had quickly transitioned from playing with Cole to quietly singing to a potted bunch of elfroot, making him wonder if she were used to the spirit’s sudden disappearances. The sight made him smile.

“She sings to the plants because she thinks that it helps them grow quicker,” Cole explained. “Leaves stretching to the noise more than to the sunlight, flowers blooming for her enjoyment.  She doesn’t know it, but the plants like hearing her song. It’s an old tune, far older than she will ever be, but it’s changed, becoming a song of creation instead of destruction.  She has changed. Her body is home to her alone.”

“What do you mean by that?” Vincent carefully asked, hand tightening on his staff out of habit. Had something happened?

“A soul willingly separated from its host. Her grandmother is very fond of her; she says Bryony has your eyes.” Cole held out a hand to stave off the questions that burned in Vincent’s throat. Grandmother?  But Flemeth had met her end at his own hands, he’d done it to ensure Roz’ safety.  “Don’t be scared.  She cannot take what isn’t willingly offered. She has never meant your family harm, and none will ever befall them, should she have any say in the matter. She’s been lost for so very long, a mother who forgot what motherhood was about, but she’s finally remembering.”

“Have you been with them long?” Vincent asked, eyes finally leaving Bryony as she skipped from flower pot to flower pot in order to scan the gardens, breath held as he searched for a familiar splash of red hair. Roz had always been a little overprotective of their daughter, never letting her out of her sight for long. There were too many people milling about to see her, but his heart beat quicker at the thought of being with her again.

“The three of them came from Orlais a few months ago.” Cole’s eyes went from Vincent to Bryony and then away, his attention centered on the far end of the garden. “She speaks of you often, you know. Fear, sharp and bright catching her throat, is he safe, is he well? Questions eager to spill forth getting caught against clenched teeth. She doesn’t dare speak them out loud, afraid of what the answers would be. Will he love us as much as we love him? Will he love me like he did before?”

Vincent turned to face Cole. “Where is she? Please, I must know.”

Cole pointed towards the gazebo at the opposite end of the garden. From his vantage point, he couldn’t quite make out who was sitting under the shade, but he could see two distinct figures at a bench, heads down and a book between them.  He must have made some noise, because Bryony’s attention turned from the Prophet’s Laurel she had been picking dead leaves off of to him and she shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting to try to make out his face.

“Papa?”

Vincent couldn’t stop his feet from moving even if he had wanted to. Staff and satchel clattering to the ground, he bent down just as Bryony launched herself at him, a happy shout of “Papa!” ringing in his ears. The impact sent him sprawling backwards, his hood flying back and baring his face.

His latest scars were less than a year old: long, jagged scratches from a shriek who’d gotten a lucky hit in that ran up his right cheek and over his eyebrow. He’d been fortunate that he hadn’t lost the eye in the fight. The wounds had been deep, and he was well aware of how people in villages he had traveled to reacted to them. It had become a habit to wear his cloak’s hood or make certain his longer hair shielded that side of his face.

Yet at that moment, he didn’t give a damn how frightening they may look. All that mattered was the fact that his daughter had her arms around his neck in a tight hug and that she was real, not some daydream brought about from missing her so much his chest ached. He peppered her cheeks with kisses, one hand curling through her hair and the other gently holding onto her. Exhaustion and lingering soreness in his leg forgotten, Vincent got to his feet and easily lifted Bryony up to spin her in a circle, belatedly realizing they had something of an audience. Still keeping her close, Vincent overheard whispers of Warden and is that him? The hero of Ferelden? Panic started to build as he set Bryony on her feet, her hand fitting easily into his as she tugged at his arm, insistent that they greet her mother and aunt.

The commotion they’d caused had not gone unnoticed. The two figures sitting at the gazebo had stood up, and Vincent’s heart all but stopped at the sight of Roz, her hands covering her mouth, hair shining in the sun like a fiery beacon. The ring on his hand seemed to pulse to life as his long legs ate up the distance between them. They silently stared at the other for what felt like a lifetime before Vincent reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, bending until he could press his forehead against hers.

He wasn’t certain who moved first, but the next thing he knew, his arms were around Roz and her lips were on his.  He sank into the kiss, all his cares cast to the ground at his feet. Dimly, he felt Bryony press at his hip, her arms stretching around both his and Roz’s waists. He let go of Roz with one arm to encircle their daughter, and he felt Roz do the same, their hands linking together at Bryony’s back.

Vincent pulled back first, his thumb wiping at the tear that had spilled out of the corner of Roz’s eye.

“Hi.”

Roz laughed and rubbed her nose affectionately against his. “Hello,”she replied, her hand sliding through his hair to pull him in for another kiss.

Vincent smiled against her mouth as he held her closer. It didn’t matter if they had an audience or that they were in an unfamiliar place.

He was finally home.

[pelle-lavellan-a]

Codex: Maevis

Born 20 Solis 9:25 Dragon

Death: (Verse Dependent) .9:42 Dragon

Race: Dalish Elf

Sex: Female

Height: 4′10′

Weight: 90lb

Marital Status: Single

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Religious Views: Dalish

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Affiliation: Clan Lavellan , (Verse Dependent) The Inquisition

Title: First of Clan Lavellan

Class: Mage (Pyromancy)

Bio: 

“Pelledir...you must understand I didn’t mean to hurt them. But people do awful things when they’re afraid.”

Prequisition:

Maevis was born a miracle to a middle aged couple who believed they would never bear children. She was their little bird. Maevis grew up with the notion from her parents that she could do no wrong, she was perfect in their eyes. She was a normal little girl who lived a normal life amongst the elves of her clan. She was satisfied living this way. She had friends, a loving family, she had everything. The hunters kept her safe from the dangers outside of her clan, she knew nothing of sorrow, of hunger, nor any troubles.

And then her magic surfaced when she was twelve years old. 

It was the first time in her life that she truly did not want something. She has seen the Keeper’s First Pelledir studying magic, learning natural lore, reading the ancient history of their people. The day she accidentally set fire to the bow her father made her--she knew she was doomed. 

The clan did not need another mage, they already had a First who was married to the Keeper’s granddaughter. His magic was strong--as far as she was concerned he was bound to have magical children. If anyone were to hear about her magic she would have no place in her home. She had been training to hunt, she was capable of taking care of herself perhaps--she was no defenseless child. They would throw her out, they really would wouldn’t they? A mage...how could the Creators have been so cruel to her?

And then the tide turned. Both the First and his wife disappeared into the night neither of them to be seen in days. Maevis would not pretend that she was not glad to see the First gone. If he were truly dead then it might be safe for her to tell Deshanna about her abilities that she had been keeping to herself. 

Deshanna was not pleased when she found out, though much to Maevis’ surprise she was not angry about Maevis’ magic, nor that she tried to hide it. What angered Deshanna was that Maevis did not even seem to care that anyone had just died. In her anger she refused to take Maevis under her wing and was ready to have Maevis thrown out from the clan should she continue to show such disregard for her people. 

After the rather unpleasant threat, things only seemed to get worse. The First had been found among mage refugees from Kirkwall. His spirit and his body were broken but he was alive. He was returned to the clan by his cousin Faolan and brother Fen. This was her chance, she had to feign that she was relieved to see Pelledir alive. 

She’d never liked him much, too soft in her opinion. In her eyes he was just a boy who got lucky. He was smart but his body did not serve him well in combat or self defense. He was bond to a woman bigger and stronger than him, his cousin was well rounded, his cousin and best friend trained hunters He didn’t need to be self sufficient, others always had done it for him. As far as she was concerned his disciplined magic and scholarly knowledge was useless in the real world. Now that he was widowed, he was even more abhorrent to her than before. 

He would tell no one what happened to his wife. In fact, he hardly spoke at all. Maevis would visit him, speak with him, bring him food once a day. He rarely ate it, and was seldom up for conversation. This frustrated Maevis. She was determined to fool Deshanna into believing that Pelledir enjoyed her company, that she was not as self seeking as the Keeper believed. 

But the First was no fool, he knew that Maevis could not care whether he died in the night or if he recovered. When the First finally told her he did not want her company because it was insincere, Maevis lost her temper with him claiming that Deshanna had favorites and that if she did not pretend she was not revolted by him the Keeper would surely see to it that she was thrown out. 

The First simply laughed at her and told her that Deshanna was not angry that she did not like him, Deshanna was worried about Maevis. She wanted Maevis to learn to think of someone other than herself. He also mentioned that the threat was perhaps a way to motivate her to work on her attitude. However, he disagreed with Deshanna for what she’d said. He told Maevis that he felt that Deshanna had been too harsh with her, and that he knew that while Maevis acted tough that he knew her family meant a great deal to her. And with that he offered to teach Maevis himself should he recover. 

Reluctantly Maevis agreed, she did not really have any other options. 

She watched crossing her fingers as Pelle insisted upon helping protect the clan from the pursuers of the humans who’d rescued him. He’d nearly killed himself just using magic to protect Deshanna in the first place, losing consciousness soon after. 

He was an idiot, Maevis believed that with all her heart. Within a few days, Deshanna was no longer performing the duties of the Keeper on her own. While he was not actually the Keeper, between the two of them he was younger, more physically capable, and well on his way to becoming the Keeper himself should Deshanna’s health get any worse. The way Deshanna saw it, Pelle was more of an extension of herself now...and he was to teach take her on as an apprentice the way a Keeper would. Which made her...the First in some strange roundabout way...

She tolerated Pelle. He taught her to control her magic, he taught her to read and write, and he began teaching her the old lore. 

Over the years,the clan migrated more often than she remembered in the past due to the mage templar war, and excluding a time where the clan was burned out, nothing major had really happened that was worth documenting for her. She learned her magic, she studied the lore, and in her spare time she still joined the hunts when she was available. 

Pelle knew she had no interest in taking on the responsibilities that came with being the First...or even the second, he did not try to convince her otherwise.

Three years later, Pelle would leave the clan claiming to return with news from the Conclave. 

He never returned... 

Soon enough the clan would receive word from Pelledir that he was being held the Inquisition and was certain he might be struck down should he attempt to leave.

 For now they would have take direction from Deshanna, he did not imagine he would be coming home anytime soon. This seemed as good a plan as any, if Deshanna hadn’t fallen ill shortly after 

She went quickly...and with that left no one to lead the clan. Maevis would not be responsible for them. 

Inquisition:

Traveling Wycome spelled death for Clan Lavellan. Despite Pelledir’s, who was now Inquisitor of this foreign Inquisition, efforts from Orlais the clan could not be saved. Few of her clansmen survived, and in their small numbers chose to leave the area lest they become more fodder to the soldier’s blades. 

One of the hunters, Talwinne, proposed they make their way to the Inquisition. Surely Pelle who was now Inquisitor to this strange Inquisition would grant them permission to stay after the things they’d been through. The journey to Skyhold was long and nothing short of a little gruesome. In the end--only her and Talwinne managed to make it to the hold. 

There had been fifteen of them when they left Wycome. Eight of them died along the way from crossfires in the war, demons, wildlife, etc. The rest--Maevis took care of them. Deciding that it would be difficult to move forwards with so many once they reached Orlesian, she chose to have something done about the others. Making the choice of who would be most useful the rest of the journey, Maevis chose to spare Talwinne. 

The rest, she lied to them, told them she’d found an Inquisition camp nearby when she was scouting ahead and that they ought to go and ask them for safety. The five were not quick to follow, telling her they ought to wait for Talwinne who left to retrieve wood to build a fire. Maevis told two of them to wait for Talwinne, fetch him once he returned.

Where she led the other three instead was a tear in the sky infested with demons, a Rift as they were being called these days. The two who had waited for Talwinne came running when they heard the screaming. By then...Maevis was already gone, she’d fled back to camp leaving them all to die. 

Talwinne was furious, he swore he would kill Maevis if he thought it was worth it. Maevis pretended she wasn’t hurt, that she did not feel the slightest remorse for murdering her own people. She told Talwinne her reasons, he did not accept them. 

In her anger she shouted at him that she had made the hard decision that had to be made, it was too dangerous to travel in packs in the part of Thedas, it would draw too much attention. 

The two did not speak unless it was crucial for the rest of the trip to Skyhold. Once there, both of them volunteered to work as scouts for the Inquisition. 

[illusivesoul]

Here it is, my first published piece of DA writing. A crappy one shot of a rarepair I've thought about for a while.

"Queen Cousland and Mara Cauthrien"

1500 words

Fluff and Angst

Alexandra Cousland and Mara Cauthrien were together in secret before the Blight.

After the hardships of the brutal year of war against the Darkspawn, they meet again to reflect and remember

.

This is the first time I've written Dragon Age content. I've played Origins for the first time a few months back, and I found Ser Cauthrien to be a really interesting character.

It's a rarepair idea I had for a while in my head of how Ser Cauthrien and a Cousland who later became a Warden might have known each other from before the Blight. Also because I love Ser Cauthrien coz she's a badass and she's very underrated.

I also gave Ser Cauthrien the first name Mara, since we never learn her real name in the game.

.

Cauthrien passed her hand softly along the edge of the sword, carefully feeling the sharpness of the blade. She remembered the day Loghain had given it to her, the proudest moment of her life. She had swore that she would use it against any and all enemies of Ferelden, and that she would die upon it if it would benefit her nation.

Yet, during the greatest threat her country had ever faced, a Blight that had threatened to wipe the land and her people from the face of Thedas, she had ended up killing more of her own countrymen than darkspawn. All in the name of the Grand Teyrn Loghain. Because he was the only one able to lead Ferelden through this crisis, and all those who opposed him were just power hungry and selfish brutes willing to crush anyone who stood in their way to the throne.

It had all seemed so certain, so clear.

So righteous and correct.

Except it hadn't been.

She heard the clicking locks of the door of the room where she had locked herself into opening, and the sound of chains being pulled across it.

Then the door opened, and she entered.

“Leave us alone” the woman spoke and the guard closed the door, locking it shortly after. The voice sent shivers down the former soldier’s spine.

“Hello, Mara”

Cauthrien turned and looked at the source of the voice. She had to swallow a gasp when she saw the woman in front of her.

“Alexandra Cousland. Or should I call you ‘Your Highness’ now ?”

The woman who always had her hair tied up now had it loose, the long black streams of hair now going past her shoulders. She wore a long dress of fine broidery and vivid colors which gave her a more imposing air than usual, and the tatoo on her eye only added to her the mysterious look she had always carried with her.

“Please, Mara, don't be like this”

“Don't be like what, Alexandra ? I've heard of what you did. I…”

Cauthrien stopped talking and lowered her sight. Cousland sat beside her on the bed.

The scent of her perfume assaulted the soldier's nostrils, the familiar scent making her let out a deep breath.

“He didn't suffer” Cousland said.

“He deserved better, even after…" Cauthrien slumped her shoulders in defeat, letting her sword fall loudly towards the floor "Or perhaps not”

“He will always be remembered as a hero, one of the greater Fereldan patriots who returned us our independence. But his actions throughout the Blight…”

“You don't have to explain. I know. I was there with him when he was making those ‘actions’, as you called them”

Alexandra looked into Cauthrien’s eyes. She saw the dark bags that were appearing under them. She wondered how long it had been since she had gotten a proper night's rest.

“Is that why you came, Alexandra ? Did you came to tell how I'm to be publicly tried for being an accessory to a war criminal, for having aided the man who did more damage to Ferelden in a year than Orlais did in 80 ? And how I am to be hanged on the city gates so that all would know what happens to those who defy King Alistair and…”

“Mara. Stop” Cousland said as she turned her around and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet her gaze, her crystal blue eyes meeting Cauthrien’s deep black ones“I would never let such thing happen to you. Ever. Understood ?”

The soldier's eyes moved to the woman's hand, and over the scarred skin, saw a small knitted bracelet on her wrist, adorned with tiny pieces of painted papers which gave its color an eye catching allure.

“You're still wearing it” Cauthrien said, trying to hide the sorrow in her voice.

Cousland lifted her arm, bringing it next to her face as she smiled.

“I still remembered the Landsmeet when you gave me this. Seems like a lifetime ago. You snuck from Loghain’s side, found me and put it on me as you told me…”

“That as long as you had it you would carry a piece of me with you”

“And you better believe me when I tell you that through many times during this blasted year, feeling that bracelet on me was the only thing that gave me peace of mind, as I prayed to the Maker that wherever you were… he would keep you safe”

Cauthrien looked at her intently, letting out rapidly increasing breaths.

Then she broke.

Alexandra held her as she cried against her neck, feeling the hot tears falling on her skin as she kneaded Cauthrien’s hair, letting the torrent of emotions that were coursing through her come out. Before she knew it, she was crying too.

“All that time…” Cauthrien spoke between sobs “I missed you so much. When I heard… Ostagar and…”

Memories from that fateful day in the Landsmeet are still fresh in both of their minds.

Cauthrien stands before the gates of the room, sword in hand, determined to not let them pass.

Alistair, Leliana and Zevran draw their weapons, ready for a fight.

Alexandra moves forward, drawing shocked looks from everyone.

She places the tip of the blade against her chest, and gives Cauthrien that determined, cold look that sent shivers down her spine.

“Cut me down if you must, Mara. But I swear in the Andraste’s name that I will not raise my blade against you”

They both heard the tensing of Leliana's bow. Mara looks at Alexandra. This was the woman who had caused so much harm to the nation, according to the Teyrn. the enemy that for months she had been made her hate and distrust .

Yet now, as her sword pressed against her, she felt the doubt raising through her, the thought of striking the only person she's ever cared about like this proving to be too much.

She lowers the blade and leans forward, softly grabbing Cousland by the back of the neck, pressing their foreheads together.

They stand in silence for a few moments, feeling their breaths brushing against each other, neither wanting this short moment of peace to end. But it has to.

“Do what is right. Save Ferelden. And... don't die” Cauthrien whispers to her before pulling apart and walking away, doing her best to hide from everyone's sight, not wanting to let anyone see her breaking down.

“It's alright” Cousland said before giving a soft kiss to her forehead “That's in the past. I'm here now… We're here now”

After a long while, Cauthrien sat upright. Having calmed down, she stretched her hand and softly cupped Alexandra’s cheek, who leaned into the touch and planted a long kiss on the inside of the palm.

“So what happens now ? To us, if there is an us to speak of, of course. You have a husband now. You'll need to be at his side and rule with him” the former soldier spoke hesitantly, as if she was afraid of the answer she would receive.

“Alistair and I agreed to the marriage to remove Anora from the equation and to do what was best for Ferelden. He and I will indeed rule together, but on our personal lives we both know very well where we stand” Alexandra spoke in a confident and leading tone, her voice soft yet commanding. Cauthrien imagined how powerful she must have looked brandishing the Cousland blade and shield, in shining armor shouting orders as she led the armies of Ferelden against the Archdemon and the darkspawn horde. She regretted that she hadn't stood at her side through it, and the guilt felt like a hole in her soul.

“So that means…”

“That means the throne will need a new captain of the honor guard, and Alistair has already agreed that it will be you. Ferelden has precious need of experienced soldiers, and you are amongst the best of the best. Besides…”

Alexandra leaned forward, resting her forehead against Cauthrien’s. They stared at each other for a few moments before locking their lips together, a kiss that soon turned into a desperate whirlwind of emotion, of pain and longing of happiness and relieve. Of love.

They softly pulled away, still savoring the taste of each other in their mouths. Cousland smiled as she saw the reddened blush that spread across Cauthrien’s face. She always enjoyed turning the hardened, stoic soldier into a sentimental mess.

“The queen could always use a confidante. Someone to discuss issues, an advisor of many things. Don't you agree ?”

Cauthrien gave her a wicked grin “I've been complimented by you a few times by the strength of my opinions on certain ‘topics’. I'd be more than happy to advise you in aspects that you may consider necessary, Your Highness”

“That's what I like to hear” Alexandra replied as she stood from the bed “But please, Mara, when we're alone, call me Alexandra. Now, get cleaned up. Your ceremony is in the afternoon”

“Of course” Cautrien grabbed Cousland”s hand and gave it a long, deep kiss “Anything for you… my love”

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 19 - Shadows on the Mind

It is the spring of 9:32 Dragon, and Ferelden is gripped in the midst of a bloody civil war. Driven by fear of an old enemy, the traitorous Loghain Mac Tir has stirred the people against the king, and every day new factions vie for power, waiting to take advantage of the chaos now that it is certain a new peace can only be won with swords.

In the north, Arl Howe of Amaranthine has seized control of Highever, and only Rosslyn Cousland, last scion of a slaughtered noble house, stands in the way of his greed. Aided by King Cailan’s uncle and his bastard half-brother, Alistair, she is determined to seek justice for her family’s murder and right the wrongs done to her people.

But politics is a complicated game. War has a cost; nobility comes with obligation; and beneath the machinations on both sides of the conflict, an even deeper threat stirs, biding its time to come into the light and bring Ferelden to its knees.

Words: 2837

Chapter summary: His plans outmatched for the time being, Loghain plots his next move in Denerim.

CW: violent death (no gore)

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Twenty-seventh day of Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

The large window in the king’s study had been installed during the rebuilding of Denerim, as the last black marks of the Occupation were being washed away. It offered an unparalleled view of the city, which Maric said was the point. He had once asked, rhetorically, what kind of king he would be if all he did was sit behind a desk making writs without seeing how they affected his people. The fact that many of these writs had been delayed over the years because of His Majesty’s tendency to be distracted by the goings-on in the streets below had been an endless source of frustration for his advisors.

Despite the tendency to let his mind wander, Maric’s dedication to his people could not be denied. In the years following the Orlesian retreat, trade deals with the Free Marches and Antiva had swelled the size of the capital’s harbour district, bringing in exotic goods, raw materials, and investment, and now the deep water port could accommodate even a Qunari dreadnought, should one ever deign to come so far south. With the increased shipping came the markets and the merchants and the bustle of dockworkers making their daily living. On an ordinary day, the streets would be busy with fishermen and hawkers lauding the goods they had for sale, and with them, sailors waiting for the tide to turn, and sometimes the more brazen madams trying to win their coin and their attention for an hour or two.

Loghain could see no loiterers today. He scowled out at the drizzle, one hand clutched reflexively at the heavy pendant hanging around his neck, stroking it with his thumb. The curious green crystal at its centre caught the light and made for an annoying reflection in the glass, but he barely noticed it. The last of his ships were making port, unscathed by the winter storms. In addition to the troops he had originally meant as a reserve, the three-masted vessels carried much needed supplies and equipment from the winter stores in Gwaren, and their addition to his rations would greatly ease the strain on the soldiers and on the general populace, who had so far taken to his presence with the equanimity to be expected of commoners. So long as they were left alone without privation, they would be unlikely to cause trouble.

Still, no need to be complacent. Even though he had outed Cailan as a traitor to his people, there were still those among the guard and the nobility whose loyalty remained steadfast to their monarch. An admirable quality, to be sure, but a dangerous one for a man whose success depended on his enemy not knowing his next move. Even now, the gates to the city were shut to all those without official business, and the massive netted chain that guarded the harbour against piracy was drawn in so that not even the smallest boat could pass and send word to the loyalists.

The sight ought to be easing his mind. Setting sail from Gwaren in the middle of winter with all of Cailan’s forces blocking the Brecilian Passage was a gamble a lesser man wouldn’t have risked, but he had seen the opportunity for a swift end to the conflict, and had taken his chance when the Southron Hills became clogged with snow. He had left port ahead of the storm, satisfied in the knowledge that Arl Leonas and others of his ilk would rest on their certainty, think him trapped by the southern winter. While they had hung their cloaks and settled by their fires to wait for the thaw, he had rounded the peninsular unmolested, with his soldiers safe from every enemy but the sea.

And yet, when he had pulled into port on that overcast, blustery morning a week ago, it was only to find his ultimate prize had slipped his grasp.

I underestimated him.

The capital hadn’t so much fallen to him as noticed the new pennants on the city gates, then shrugged and resumed its winter torpor. Loghain had the palace, and the royal guard, and control of shipping all along the northern coast, but without Cailan, the victory was a hollow one. The plan had been to curtail the king’s movements, to make him see reason or act for the greater good if he did not, and either way to end the war before the toll of innocent lives became too great. Instead, he had escaped, and taken his legitimacy with him. Although untested in open battle, the young man was skilled with a blade, and worse, he was likeable, sure to rouse support among banns easily swayed by pretty words. The loyalty Loghain himself had to fight for with threats and grim debate, Cailan managed with an easy smile and a witticism or two. No doubt it was such radiant charm that had ensnared Anora’s feelings, too – and those of that thrice-damned Orlesian harpy eager to supplant her.

A movement in the courtyard below caught Loghain’s eye. It was the wind, brushing against the limp body swinging by the neck in the courtyard, purpled and starting to swell from exposure. The sight calmed him. When he had led his troops onto the dock to find only the wizened Arl of Denerim waiting for him, in the depth of his anger he knew he had been betrayed, because how else would Cailan have known to flee? The purge of his ranks had been swift, the punishment meted out to the conspirators harsh but necessary.

The wind tugged again, and the dead soldier twisted on the end of his rope, so that the empty face turned upwards to the king’s window, staring at Loghain from dark eye sockets, tongue blue and bloated where it poked between his teeth.

Yes. A necessary sacrifice. A traitor. It was always I who made the harsh decisions to ensure victory. Maric, at least, understood that.

Loghain turned his attention back to the ships. The question before him was what to do now. Summer was swiftly on the march, and with it, the long, hot days traditionally given over to campaigning; the forces currently held at bay by freak snowstorms and boggy roads would soon be on the move, and without a clear advantage of numbers, open warfare would be risky.

And then there was the Cousland girl, this ‘Falcon of Highever’ as she styled herself. He should have known better than to trust Howe to take care of the teyrn and his family. The man’s avarice was outstripped only by his hubris, and the combination had allowed the chit to escape and raise a war across the North. Twice now he had read reports of her victories, and just last week a snivelling message from Howe saying his forces had been driven back by raids from ambush soldiers wearing the blazon of the Laurels. She had the makings of a formidable opponent – in some ways, one more dangerous to his plans than Cailan. Her style was reckless, her limited experience compensated for by the spur of revenge, the same knowledge of righteousness against cruelty that had pressed all the old guard to victory during the Occupation. Loghain knew that feeling well; he might have admired her in different circumstances.

Yes, it had been a mistake to let Howe have the Couslands. Bryce had been an honourable man, a fellow warrior, and a veteran of the Rebellion, always a level head in the Landsmeet unlikely to fall for rhetoric. In truth, he was one of the few who could be called noble without any sense of irony, but the loyalty commanded in Highever had made it necessary to remove him from the field before Cailan’s quarrel led to open war. If there had been time, he would have tried harder to persuade the teyrn to part ways with the king, even knowing it would never have worked. The Couslands were too loyal, too traditional, and proud to a fault. Loghain’s lip curled in a faint sneer at this thought, wondering if Bryce would have been so quick to dismiss this new threat from Orlais if it had been his daughter set up as the laughingstock of Ferelden.

And now she’s running loose, garnering sympathy and likely making eyes at that fool boy, looking to usurp my daughter’s place as Queen.

Behind him on the other side of the king’s desk, the members of his senior staff shifted nervously as his mumblings took on the timbre of a growl. He had always been a strict commander, demanding the best from those who served him, and their loyalty was rewarded in kind – as was disloyalty. The stresses of the past few weeks seemed to finally be catching up to the old general, however. He suffered from headaches, and this in turn made him more taciturn, less predictable, and catching his ire these days was dangerous. More than one mind veered to the body slowly turning in the courtyard. Loyalty held sway, but their respect was now edged by a creeping sense of dread.

Only the tall young woman stood at the centre of the knot of advisors seemed eager to draw Loghain’s attention rather than deflect it. Ser Cauthrien stood polished in full armour, clunky layers of plate and mail that were not quite padded enough to hide her narrow frame, her hands held stiff at her sides, a rapt expression on her thin face. Her shoulders ached from the strain of keeping her spine straight, her feet were numb, and a wisp of mud-dark hair fell into her eyes, but she made no move to brush it away. Since losing King Cailan, the worsening news about the rebellions in the north and west meant the way forward was now unclear, and there was much to consider before deciding on the best course. Would it be more reassuring to have a commander who made snap decisions without thinking through every eventuality caused by his actions? She felt a spike of contempt for those who shrank away from her master. After all, he had brought them all safe across the winter sea, caused the king himself to flee in fear, and now stood in Denerim’s palace, having won the city with minimal losses. She could not judge his actions executing the supposed traitor. The decision had been swift, for sure, and shocking to all those who had witnessed the man’s final pleas as he stood on the scaffold, but Loghain’s face had been grim as he passed the sentence, and in all her years of service, Cauthrien had never known him to be unnecessarily cruel. And what other reason could there be for the king’s conveniently-timed escape?

She licked chapped lips and waited.

“We cannot allow ourselves to grow careless,” Loghain said eventually. He still faced the window, and it was unclear whether or not he was speaking to the other people in the room.

“The weather is already improving,” Cauthrien offered. “We can be on the road in two days, if you wish it.”

He turned, his thick brows drawn down over his eyes in a dark scowl. “My wish is to see the people of Ferelden free of those who enslaved us for a century, and of those who would hand this country back to Orlais like a trussed boar on a platter.”

He stroked his thumb over the green jewelled pendant as he spoke, distracted. She tried to suppress the tiny shiver that trailed up her spine when his eyes locked on hers – it was the weight of expectation she saw in them, that was all.

“What is your command, You Lordship?” she asked.

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence, and I will not see my efforts go to waste because of Cailan’s vanity and his foolish refusal to listen to reason. Rendon Howe’s ineptitude has cost us support, and I do not trust his loyalty to our cause. He will be dealt with, but not while his actions provide a distraction for our enemy.” He sighed, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a grimace. “So now I look to you, Ser Cauthrien. The nobility must be brought into line so that we may stand united against the Orlesian threat.”

“I will see it done, Your Lordship,” she answered.

Loghain nodded. “Our scouts report that the king’s army suffered heavy losses at West Roth, and because of that were unable to press north and retake Highever. Instead, they have retreated. If his commanders have any sense, they’ll go to Redcliffe to try and rebuild their forces in safety, but Cailan himself is reckless. His designs on Empress Celene are proof enough of that. Now is the time to strike.”

A ripple of anticipation wove through the officers behind Cauthrien.

“You will lead our forces south, and cut him off from his sanctuary at Redcliffe with whatever force you deem necessary,” Loghain continued. “Defeat his army, kill this upstart scion of Highever.”

“And the king himself?”

“Bring him back alive, if you can. I am not yet such a villain to want him dead, and I would spare my daughter more pain.”

“I understand, your lordship.” She bowed and turned to leave, but his voice called her back.

“You have come a long way, Cauthrien, and I trust your judgement in the field.” His eyes met hers again, pale and uncanny in the backlight from the window as he reached forward and offered her a packet sealed with the embossed image of the Drake in black wax. “Do not disappoint me.”

She nodded again and swallowed back the dread that chilled her bones as she took her orders. It wasn’t fear of him that made her pause – it wasn’t – it was fear of failure. If not for his generosity, she would be nothing more than another browbeaten farmwife with a clutch of bawling infants at her hip and no chance to better herself, to make a name based on her merit as a warrior. The other captains parted for her, scuttling back out of reach with envious looks.

When the door slammed closed, they shuffled forward, passing glances between each other, as if seeing who would dare to break the silence first. Loghain had turned back to the window.

“Well?” he demanded, when the silence stretched. “What have you to say – or are you all content to stand about like partlets waiting for wheat to rain from the sky?”

“Your Lordship,” said one, the oldest and most confident of the four. “I have reports here on the garrison, and on your proposal to –”

“Leave it here,” Loghain snapped. “I will read it later.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“There was one matter that requires discussion,” interrupted another, who bore the rank insignia of a guard-captain. “It’s an issue of some delicacy.” He paused, trying to frame his words. “It has been wondered by some what your intentions are regarding the… the queen.”

Loghain turned at that, his eyes softening for a moment. “Anora is safe in Gwaren, where she will stay,” he said. “Did you think I would risk her in this venture?”

“Uh, no, Your Lordship,” the young man replied. “But the concern among some of the men is more that she…”

“Spit it out.”

The officer gulped. “There is nobody to watch over her in Gwaren, save her women. The worry is she may do something rash, may warn the king about –”

“You dare suggest my own daughter would betray me?”

“W-well, I…”

“Anora is loyal to me!” Loghain thundered, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “I would sooner trust her than any of you. Is that clear? If I so much as hear a whisper about this matter after today, the consequences for the one uttering them will be severe.”

The captains looked at each other, quailed, and mumbled their assent. A knock on the door disturbed the fraught atmosphere of the study, drawing Loghain’s scowl away from the faces of his officers.

“Come!”

“Good day, Your Lordship,” the messenger said as she poked her head around the door. “You told me to inform you when that magister arrived. He’s waiting out in the corridor, Ser. There’s another one with ‘im. Name of Erimond.”

“Very good,” Loghain replied. “The rest of you are dismissed. Send him in,” he added to the messenger, who nodded and retreated to carry out her duty. He glanced at the garrison report left on the very edge of his desk, but did not reach for it. Instead, he waited for the magisters. The chaos in Highever had forced his hand. Doing business with the Imperium was something Maric had always baulked at – a price costed too high, he said – but then Maric had never faced a threat quite like this one, and to lose his advantage now would be to lose the whole of Ferelden to its oldest enemy.

He would not let that happen.

[oatflower]

the first half of my fic swap with @black-rose4, it’s a two-part piece about the relationship between varric and her oc alfie hawke!!

Alfie Hawke had invested in a bodyguard but got tangled in the business of having a best friend.

Sometimes, when they found themselves taken off on a whim of fanciful, alcohol-induced storytelling, both of them claimed that they’d known in an instant that this was bound to happen. The way Varric would tell it, leaning over a sticky bar table and soaking up the eager eyes of all those loyal patrons still sober enough to listen, would paint him and Hawke as two hardened businessmen seeking pleasure and profit in the white city of chains - and then they stole one glance at the other’s copious amount of body hair, and the love story began.

It was too far off the truth to make it to the final edit of Varric’s book, but too many drunken moments shared between them in the Hanged Man in front of dozens of devoted customers was enough to have them all sold. After all, most of them had been witnesses to Alfie’s heaving sobs at their favourite corner table, a quivering mass of muscle wrapped in expensive Hightown silks with a voice that boomed over every other conversation.

“Those bastard researchers in Orlais… dogs don’t like hugs, they’re saying.” A sloppy backhanded scrubbing of tears and a deep sniff indistinguishable from the sleepy sounds Douglas was making under the table. “Does my own dog hate me, Varric? Is that what it all means? My own special boy? Douglas, tell me it isn’t true. Maker, please…”

In truth, neither of them had seen this friendship coming. It was an idle exchange of coin and small-talk and then, out of nowhere, it was this: laughing uproariously in the tavern when Alfie promised Varric that someday, somehow, he would find the dwarf a shirt with buttons. It was Varric tossing health potions faster than Alfie could land a two-handed swing of his blade across a darkspawn’s mangled face, it was Hawke carrying his own quiver of crossbow bolts just in case a split-second would ever occur when the ammunition ran dry and his best friend - business partner - fell beneath the horde. It was the entire wasted late-night population of the Hanged Man gawking in awe at Varric Tethras after Alfie had spun a story of the dwarf crippling the Arishok with a single well-timed shot to the ankle, just enough to give the not-yet Champion of Kirkwall time to land his killing blow.

“Just a little repayment for making me sound so good in all your stories.”

It was the two of them staggering drunk - on cheap swill, on night air, on the sheer reckless victory of champions - through the empty streets of Lowtown, with its blank-eyed buildings and gnarled rooftops, blankets and rags abandoned by beggars looking like sleepy ghosts in every street corner, every breath of wind a threat and every threat a mere second thought for two would-be strangers and has-been saviours like these.

In the end, the choice is both easy and impossible. In the end, the hero lives.

What Varric cannot write about - will not, he corrects himself, it just doesn’t make for interesting reading - are those heart-throttling seconds when the ending had not been so certain. The fear was written on Alfie’s face, clear as anything Varric had ever printed in a book; he doesn’t want to die. That should have been the easy part. But Varric still sees something in those tired hero eyes that makes him think twice, makes him remember that tired and hero have always been synonymous. The fear is evident, the fear is felt and faced, but something in his eyes is searching, doubting, grasping for another way, another world where the Inquisitor won’t have to look at the dutiful Warden standing by with the truth written on her face like the engraving on a tombstone, where she won’t have to preface another hero’s death sentence with sorry, won’t have to watch the Champion’s knees buckle with yet another weight added to an already guilty soul. He doesn’t want to die, but there is an unspoken and yet as he steals another glance at the towering monster everyone is pretending not to see.

The hero lives, but his friend is not spared from the horror of that split-second in-between. Two heroes finding themselves on the brink of suicidal when the situation calls for sacrifice, each waiting to be sentenced, no place or space or time for the best friend’s voice, no words to stitch it all back together. Varric Tethras, wordless, soundless, remembering a thousand different stories they shared and trying to figure out which one would be enough to remind Hawke that he doesn’t have to make this call. The strip-poker and swordfights, swaying arm-in-arm in the swill-drunk streets of Kirkwall, singing about Pirate Queens and Blights and things, nursing all the scars they’d taken for each other, thinking about which pair of arms Alfie would fall into that night and how much detail he’d be willing to share for the integrity and accuracy of a Varric Tethras publication. Too many tales, too little time.

Funny how the tragedy writes itself sometimes.

But the hero lives, much to the disappointment of some underwhelmed critics. Emerging from the Fade feels like kicking their way out of an early grave, and for once they can leave the burden on someone else’s shoulders, sidle aside while the someone else makes the speech. The two of them take their place as has-been heroes and let some other poor bastard take the fall, a luxury that comes with its own kind of guilt but not enough to do anything about it. Varric Tethras had prepared himself for the letters he’d have to write home, and instead finds himself with nothing but free hands and free time to think about a future with a living hero still in it, not in peril, just pausing for breath before a long journey home.