#but maybe shows a little bit more of the personality he had in tevinter nights

[rookinthecrownest]

Out of Curiosity

[vaguely-concerned]

Eight Little Talons Reread Thoughts

Which, I’ll level with you folks, is mostly just me gushing about Teia and Viago and how much they should kiss because of who I am as a person, but maybe also some actual observations sprinkled in. This is still my favourite story in Tevinter Nights, I think, there’s so much Character Stuff in it. Let’s go!

Viago hated carriages—no amount of plush seating could make up for the inevitable ache of being knocked around like weighted dice. But decorum insisted, and he would not be outclassed by his fellow Talons.

Vs.

“You didn’t take a carriage.” 

“My luggage did. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity for a country jaunt.” She nodded toward the thoroughbred Taslin strider grazing on the top of the hill. “Andoral so rarely gets a chance to let loose in Rialto.” 

“You named your horse after an archdemon?” 

“Don’t worry, Vi. I won’t let him nip you.

You know… Andarateia might gain some illusion of normalcy by standing next to the most paranoid wound-up-tight repressed man around to provide contrast, but I think it’s crucial we keep in mind that she is also nuts. Naming your horse after an archdemon IS an insane thing to do in the world of Thedas huh. I suppose she genuinely seems to think of Caterina Dellamorte as a warm maternal figure and is in love with a tetchy snake of a guy too, it does all start to add up when you look at it like that.

— Beneath the smooth samite, he felt like a sinewy ball of tension. Teia suspected contact of any kind made Viago uncomfortable. It would explain why he swathed himself in indigo from chin to toe and refused to remove his gloves during dinner.

He offers his arm to her and doesn’t pull away when they meet Caterina — only when Dante shows up. Interesting (and possibly part of why Caterina seems to consider the two of them a cleverly stabilizing package deal when they get along lol). I love the mix of playful seduction and genuine fond, intimate knowledge and interest Teia has for him all the way through too — speculating about his childhood, trying to divine his thoughts and intentions, testing to see how he reacts to different things. And it’s so sweet that she seems to regard him with this affectionate amusement and fascination (which he seems to be afraid means that she’s mocking him but is, I think, just another level of appreciation she has for him. Correctly. Because he’s one of the funniest people in Thedas both in concept and in practice. Accountant brained-ass noodle arm Vetinari homage poison specialist. Teia’s neurotic purse dog of a man. Sole royal bastard who willingly chose to have a boring Antivan day job (killing people) and makes spreadsheets about it.) 

— “Not exactly welcoming, are they?” Teia whispered, her breath warm against his ear. 

Viago’s grip tightened on the head of his walking stick.

I swear to god courtney woods is so fucking good at writing romantic and sexual tension. One sentence!!! She drops in a one-sentence detail and it says everything!!!! She has such a knack for consistently adding these details without getting overindulgent or spelling it out too much that I really admire, I tend a bit more towards indulging too much as a writer that way myself so her sense of where to show restraint has me in awe 

— “Don’t ‘Nonna’ me, Andarateia Cantori,” Caterina snapped, although the heat in her voice had lowered to a simmer. “Not even my actual grandchildren call me that.” 

“Well, considering who your grandchildren are,” Teia responded, “I’m not surprised.” 

“How is Master Lucanis?” Viago asked.

Hell yeah Lucanis mention! Can’t wait to see how their dynamics will turn out in-game, we could be in for some truly spectacular and absurd workplace comedy nonsense if we’re lucky

— As always, Viago had with him his leather case of poisons and antidotes for toxins typically hidden in ingredients such as olives, truffles, pasta, lamb, cheese, cream, and alcohol. But he had not expected eggplant.

This is one of the funniest things I’ve ever read, I love Viago so much he’s such a perfect weirdo. Reader, he had not expected eggplant. 

— Taking a deep breath, Viago focused on tying his cravat—an ordinarily simple task except now Teia was running her hands across every surface in his room, and his fingers kept slipping on the final knot. “It would help if you removed the gloves,” Teia remarked. “Surely your own cravats haven’t been tampered with.”

Viago being just… seethingly horrifically despairingly horny every time Teia shows up is so amazing, and Teia clearly paying A Lot of attention to his hands and his reactions at all times… again, courtney woods s tier sexual tension provider. 

— “No,” she said, crossing her arms. “Not until we boil some water.” 

Viago raised a brow. “Eight people were poisoned in this room.” 

“Then run your little tests to make sure it’s safe, but I refuse to look at another dead body until I’ve had my coffee.”

I must take care to repeat: teia is also fucking nuts (affectionate). It’s SO FUNNY that her slightly lighter and softer moral take on being a Crow means she does feel bad about the servants ending up in the crossfire, but she will also demand that viago make her coffee with their horrifically bloated corpses still strewn about the room fhdsjka. 

— Teia had often imagined what it would be like to kiss Viago. She told herself it was only natural. He was handsome, in his own way, and wound up so tight that she likened him to a giant knot. He was a challenge to untie—to twist and pull and loosen until the tension gave way and he unraveled, laying bare all his secrets. But knots were a delicate business. Tug the wrong way and you could end up with a noose.

I know I KNOW they have sex so weird and intimate and no one even takes their clothes off during it I know it in my heart

— “Do you not think you’re attractive?” Viago turned on her, his ears pink. “Ten people are dead.” 

She didn’t back down. “And whoever’s responsible will pay, but that has no bearing on this conversation.” 

“It could be me.” 

Covering her mouth with both hands, Teia doubled over, laughter spilling from her lips. “It’s not you.” 

He looked as if she’d slapped him. “I’m more than capable of killing everyone here.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re offended!” 

“It is offensive,” Viago protested. “Professionally.”

Teia please tell me you love me not only for my body and fashion sense and numerous and fascinating neuroses but also my extensive knowledge of poisons and capacity to cause death

— Again, Viago felt like a lute string. With every challenge, Teia twisted the pegs, tuning him, until she found what she wanted. Which is what, exactly? he asked himself, not daring to listen to the number of answers that bubbled to the surface of his mind.

You know Viago I think we should let her try some scales here at least. See what happens. (There’s no explicit sex in this story but everything that’s going on is nevertheless so kinky fdsjak. I think Teia could convince Viago to show a flash of his naked wrist and have a reaction like a sheltered young Victorian gentleman seeing an exposed ankle and a playful wink for the first time)

— As if she could feel the sudden rush of shame within him, Teia brought her hands up to rest on Viago’s hips, holding him in place. His thumb stilled as he realized her breath was short. Her pupils dilated. Before he could stop himself, Viago nuzzled his forehead against hers, his nose brushing her cheek. Teia’s hands snaked up his chest to run through his hair. She tugged him forward. He braced himself on one arm, while the other curled around the small of her back. 

This whole scene is unspeakably good of course but it’s always the detail of ‘his nose brushing her cheek’ that does me in the most. The longing!!! The yearning, the intimacy, the awkward perfect clumsy physical reality of it!!!! If he kissed her here the magical potion thing on her lips would have been immaterial, the results would have been the same without it!!!!!! The tug of war between longing and fear!

— oblique Zevran mention! <3 as the ultimate failson of house arainai, granted, but as I believe he might argue here: ‘ah, but you have heard of me, no? :>’. Babe I support you so much go out there and raise hell/kill whoever you want to I got your flower

— Big shoutout to the author for managing to pull off an entirely workable ‘And Then There Were None’ plot in the background here, even though the real meat and potatoes going on is the character and relationship development (and what meat and potatoes they are too)! It’s not an easy thing to do even in an abbreviated, more of a homage sort of form and balancing it with everything else going on is a feat

— Caterina 100% knows Teia is in Viago’s room when he’s supposed to be isolated and just doesn’t care lmao. (They act like such teenagers in that scene where she knocks on the door and they haven’t even kissed yet I’m dying). Caterina seems like a terrible person but it’s impossible to not feel for her a little, trying to keep Talons in line seems a lot like herding (very horny very carrying sharp objects) cats 

— Standing outside her ex-lover’s room, Teia tried to quell the violent drumming within her. Normally, she didn’t need to come down from a physical encounter. Seduction—like any form of manipulation—was about control. She could enjoy herself, but Teia always made sure to hold the upper hand. Viago had shattered that control without so much as a kiss.

I feel like this is a sneaky common trait that actually is part of what makes them so compatible (and the playful negotiation of which must feature prominently in their sex life eventually lmao): they are both HUGE control freaks. (Indeed it might be hard to be a successful Talon without this trait.) Teia and Viago both strive for control of themselves and their surroundings so deeply, she’s just much more extroverted, psychologically minded and soft power focused going about it (not unlike Caterina, whose power is built more on fear than charm but works along the same lines), while he’s more coldly intellectual and uh materialist? I want to call it? about it. Which makes perfect sense considering their backstories! Teia came from nothing in a monetary sense but has found she excels at moving people, hearts and minds style — and she’s very good at it, she is everyone’s favorite — so that’s the source of power for her, and Viago is not very charismatic or interested in people naturally but grew up seeing how status, wealth and power have their own clinical gravity that can be used, and also that people can never be trusted to watch out for you in that system.  

If Thedas has a Machiavelli-equivalent to ask whether it’s better for a ruler to be feared or loved they would both instantly give their answer with their whole chest and then squint at each other like ‘babe how do you live like this’ lol

(Also this line of thought has me wondering what the hell Caterina’s partner/spouse(s) would have been like — she must have at least two children to account for Illario and Lucanis, I wonder if she was ever married and what that looked like.)

— I really like the oppressiveness and claustrophobia you get from the descriptions Teia uses in Dante’s room — it feels so icky and sticky with history and sad and confining, and the way she keeps pushing herself through it anyway is weirdly melancholy to me. 

— I also like how their flaws/traits that drive them apart at the crisis point have follow-up consequences outside of their relationship before they reconcile. Teia’s penchant for manipulation and pushing on people indirectly causes the death of someone she once cared about (I mean, fuck that guy, not crying any tears for Dante or his broken bottle, but like in the overarching principle of the thing lol). When she goes too far with it or gets careless, she renders other people vulnerable and helpless in ways she doesn’t anticipate. (Rightfully or not this seems to be part of what scares Viago so much about it, he has this fear of being dissected for whatever she finds interesting and then abandoned when she’s tired of it, the whole underlying being a footnote in her life when she could clearly be something uh a lot more in his anxiety.) Meanwhile Viago’s insistence on self-reliance and reluctance to engage in human contact leaves him easily isolated and nearly results in his death. (And even when Teia saves him he has a hard time giving her full credit in favour of his many neurotic coping mechanisms lmao disaster man.) But when the two of them work it out to understand each other better and come together as a partnership, they’re such a force to be reckoned with that it brute forces the resolution and return to stability near the end. (Well. A significantly reduced version of stability to be fair but y’know better late than never.)

— Also: delicious detail that she is actually the closest you might get to a self-made woman/Talon, and he is definitely at least not in a position to fully dodge the nepo baby allegations — he wants so bitterly to be entirely independent and self-sufficient and not reliant on anyone, and yet it’s his connections inherent to his birth that have helped him get here, while she wants so desperately to have people to rely on because she comes from nothing and has known what it is to be that alone and unprotected. He knows protection and gifts — and love — can easily be taken away and used to control you/render you helpless in your vulnerability from how his father treated his mother, and she knows you have to try to hold on to something in other people or it’s just you and the dirt and you die. Which is what they’re really talking about in that scene where they argue, and it’s why they’re both right and wrong at the same time and it’s so tasty. It’s really Teia asking ‘Will you ever trust anyone? (will you ever trust me, or will you put up this wall every time no matter what I say or do?)’ and Viago going ‘Will you never take precautions to protect yourself against this hurt? (will I have to be the bearer of bad news about how the world really is every time?)’ and neither of them realize that’s what they’re taling about and it’s why it all explodes so badly. (I mean. Factually both came to the wrong conclusion about who the murderer was for fairly good reasons, so there’s also that haha.) 

— I wonder if we’ll see Bolivar or the heirs to the houses left Talon-less in the game itself. I’m guessing they probably won’t have big roles, at least, but you know just as background flavour, especially since Crow!Rook is already within the de Riva uh household as it were. I think Viago is still sensibly mid-table at Fifth Talon in Veilguard and Teia remains Seventh? So at least they’re not messing around with that rank order during the occupation 

— In semi-not teia and viago news (I am a character first writer and reader I canot change this), it’s neat to see it outlined just how much the Talons really are just merchant princes with some more added knives and cultural weight behind them. They are at the end of the day running businesses, no matter the mystique ™ you wrap it in. (Which I think Viago would be the first to tell you and Teia might try to argue against at least a little haha. Being a Talon is what you make of it you live your truth girl kill awful men you’ll never run out of contracts!!)

— Can’t believe the Crows have self-congratulatory ‘top 10 murders in history!’ classes as part of the training. Do you think Zev sat through those. Probably, if Teia did, right. Now there were some entertaining hours around the campfire during the Blight I’m sure

— Viago understanding but not accepting Teia’s offer to help him with an alibi and at first angling it as being out of hesitancy to accept help/rely on someone, and then later unveiling the added element that he knows Teia respects and loves Caterina and doesn’t want her to have to lie to her for him… Viago is nothing so simple as secretly nice deep down but he IS horrifically in love with and desperate to be kind to specifically Teia and it gets to me okay  

— I’d forgotten that DA’s passionate love affair with toxic yuri and some recreational bury your gays extended to Guili and Lera in this fdskjah. Would it really be Thedas without it I suppose (considering the genre of the short story it’s fine with me in this case, though, everyone’s dropping like flies in this even the straight people that’s just equality) 

— Viago was not a typical Antivan. He liked facts—checklists, numbers, precise measurements. Heart palpitations, clammy hands, tight pants—Viago did not like these things. In fact, he would go so far as to say he hated them. Mild curiosity was his favorite mood. What Teia had elicited in him was akin to an internal natural disaster.

I simply love him so so much. Mild curiosity was his favorite mood. He failed to account for the eggplant. He’s so annoyed at being poisoned and dying horribly and it literally never occurs to him that anyone would help him until he wakes up in Teia’s lap. He organizes all his poisons by puns. He uses his potentially last breath to argue with Teia about his precise state of dress or undress. Have we finally found him, the perfect man? 

(Also between Reyes and Viago Courtney Woods does such a good line in guys who’d really rather be emotionless machines of practical violence and monetary gain but find themselves down so horrifically catastrophically bad that it cracks them open to reveal a soul they aren’t all that happy to discover they have lol) 

— When Viago woke, it felt like someone had drained the blood from his body and replaced it with sludge. But it wasn’t all bad—someone who smelled like coffee and cinnamon was playing with his hair. . . . Her fingers resumed stroking his hair. It felt better than the water. It felt better than anything.

Unspeakable. Don’t look at me. 

— Viago reaching out and touching Teia’s cheek with his bare hands without a thought and all his tenderness and reverence for her laid bare in turn is something that can actually be so personal and it only took very nearly dying to get there (also… he’s presumably still half-naked through all of this while cradled in her lap. Amazing.). Can’t believe bare hands to cheek feels like third base with these two. And his fucking THOUGHTS through all of this… Don’t cry, he doesn’t deserve your tears, no one does (I don’t, I don’t want to be something that causes you pain) AOUGH

— Vaguely related: the implication in how that part is built is that he’s reaching out specifically to gently dry away her tears, right. Double AOUGHHHHHH not only does he manage to not be selfish or unfair in asking her not to cry he does that instead… there’s hope for you yet messere de riva  

— Teia with the red-hot poker standing guard over Viago while he ‘looks like a king in judgement’ and does the Poirot in the library exposition is everything and so hot what the fuck. She a snacc she attacc but most importantly… she protecc, she’s so fucking cool lol. they’re both really smart, but she’s clearly the brawn as well as the social skills (hey manipulation is such an ugly word!) and he’s the logistics and realpolitik on two long thin nerdy legs, absolute power couple. She’s the gaslight he’s the girlboss together may they gatekeep this invading army out of antiva  

— You guys… this might come as a surprise I have tried to keep it on the down low but. I really do love the world of Thedas so very much. I love the people and the places and the history and the stupidness and the brilliance so much. We must save the world because everyone I love lives here. Let this be a secret between just you and me we can’t let people know we sit/have emotions etc.  

— A servant approached to take the cage in Viago’s hand. 

“Careful,” Viago warned. “He bites.” 

“I can’t believe you’re keeping that snake,” Teia said, shaking her head. “It almost killed you.” 

“Which is more than any man can say. He deserves my respect. And a good home—with all the mice he can eat.” 

“But did you have to name it Emil?” Teia asked, making a face. 

“An homage. You’re always telling me to recognize my fellow Talons.”

Andarateia ‘names her horse after an archdemon’ Cantori x Viago ‘keeps the deadly adder that nearly killed him as a pet and names it after the last guy who failed to murder him’ de Riva. Freak well and truly matched. Soulmates, no notes, I’ll do borderline anything for these two to make it, goodnight. 

[lethalhoopla]

Okay so while everyone's making killer theories and observations about the teasers we have for Dreadwolf on top of piecing together more and more of the lore and imagery from Inquisition and 2 and even Origins, I just needed to put this observation of my own down as well.

So, the final, incomplete, Solas mural in the rotunda, right?

Clearly, the dragon slayed with the sword, and a.... beast, of some sort. I've seen it referred to as a wolf, a dragon in and of itself, and just some representation of the Inquisition itself.... maybe.

But that's always not quite fit for me. It seems odd that Solas, who is beyond skilled at painting and iconography/symbology, would make something so…. hard to parse. And granted- this was clearly roughed out in a rush, to put it lightly. He's left at this point, the mural forever unfinished.

But in Tevinter Nights, it's described specifically (as written by Lukas Kristjanson):

"The eighth and final panel of the fresco, meant to commemorate the battle against the blighted magister Corypheus, was unfinished. It showed only rough shapes, outlines...."

"... The story was well known- the Elder One, the false god Corypheus, had torn a hole in the sky to steal power from the heavens. He couldn't be killed until his blighted dragon was dead, and the Herald, the Inquisitor, had somehow countered with a dragon of their own. And there was a dragon on the panel, with an Inquisition blade in its neck. But according to the story, both creatures had fallen first, leaving the final victory to the Inquisitor.

But here, unfinished, was the outline of a beast that stood over both dragon and sword. This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after. And the beast was not a dragon. The outline alone might have allowed that assumption, but now, filling with black and red, it was something other. The creature was reptilian, but also canine. The snout was blunted and toothy, but edges came to a point in houndlike ears. [.....] revealing scales and tail, and paws with talons. It looked like two figures painted on either side of a pane of glass, then viewed together, their forms confused. A wolf that had absorbed a dragon, and now stood crooked over all."

Now, without getting too deep into spoilers for that short story (I really recommend it, and the rest of Tevinter Nights!), the depiction could be warped by what happens in the story (and is unfolding in that scene). But due to the reason it's warped, what 'colors' it, I think that the depiction is still accurate (it just becomes a bit more Spicy, let's say). I think that what Solas was starting was a creature like that - a wolf, that absorbed a dragon.

Of course, the question then is what that means.

As lore's revealed over the series, dragons aren't just associated with Archdemons, or even with the potential legends of qunari 'origins' (as dragonkin). Dragons are also specifically associated with the Evanuris - from the fact that only those as powerful as might-as-well-be-god mages could shapeshift into dragons, to their personal symbolism, to hints that different archdemons might be connected to each one (their numbers match, for one...)

Was it Solas leaving some hint as to who, what he was, then? The Dreadwolf, but also the Trickster God? Perhaps how despite simply attempting to free/help his people (he speaks of the loyal, steadfast wolf in the game more than once, wise and wonderful), he was elevated to the status of legend and god (dragonhood)? Was it symbolizing the blended might of the Inquisition, both protector Wolf and godlike Dragon? Some blend thereof, or extrapolation beyond?

Fuel for thought, for sure. But beyond that... the silhouette kept reminding me of something.

It took me a little too long to realize - it wasn't until I was idly staring at the Steam startup image for it while waiting for Origin to hurry up and connect that it hit me.

It's.... it's right there on the box/start screen.

It's... way, way closer to the creature Solas had begun to depict than what we've seen in dragon silhouettes in the past. And I get it- even as I write this, I hesitate, because I mean, the whole silhouette included has wings, right?

(sidenote, but major props to whoever designed this piece, the details are so good, including the fade/fireball/comets shooting off the 'wings' to look like support bones for wing webbing)

That's why I hadn't really thought about it before. But when that hit me, I went back to look at dragon silhouettes in previous games, and I mean-

That's the usual Origin one - and yeah, that's.... way more narrow a snout, though of course you're still getting that dragon spine spike along the neck. The neck itself is far more narrow, too, and its teeth more needlelike.

Okay, what about DA2?

Alright, now we've got some framing that is like DAI. (also, more props for the designers, and the silhouettes of Kirkwall friends/foes, hot damn).

But that face - the dragon's face. I keep catching on it. DA has a really great track record of being pretty specific about its silhouettes, symbols, and general representations, at least where it matters.

The dragon-made-by-silhouette in the Inquisition cover art is significantly blunted in its snout, the neck much broader, shortened in horn (or ear), and even the angle of horn (ear??) is different from past dragon iconography.

I dunno. I definitely don't think it's unreasonable to leave it at artistic representation/liberty, it just ended up a bit rounded, whatever. But where I get less inclined to leave it at that is when coming back to this final incomplete mural panel.

... It's all of it. The down-rounded snout, the way the teeth are depicted, the horn-ears, the spikes-that-could-be-fur, the obviously shorter and wider neck, the over-exaggerated sternum bone that strikes as dragon (/reptilian) before you think it could also be wolf rib cage-

It's.... close. Awfully, curiously close. At the very least, the Inquisition splash art feels like it could be the middle step between dragon and this. The splash is dragon, but wolflike - this is wolf, but dragonlike.

........... now, why the heck does this matter? Well, maybe it doesn't to most people, haha. But I'm an imagery and lore-reference obsessed nerd, and Dragon Age really does go hard with it's laid lore and hints of the future. So I can't help but ask-

Is the mural really depicting the Inquisition Defeating Corypheus?

... even the Tevinter Nights story, the way it's phrased casts some murkiness.

"The story was well known...." ".... This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after."

.... With dragons representing the Evanuris, perhaps.... is this instead a note, a hint, left depicting Solas' intent? To slay the dragon, the true dragons, what remains of the Evanuris after he tears down the Veil - because it would not only cause chaos, but also release them from the prison he'd made via the creation of the Veil?

Is the dragon-wolf not the Inquisition, but Solas, or rather - more importantly - Fen'Harel?

The shape of the maw, the way the ears point back, the trailing scruff/magic along the neck 'spine'....

Even the way the rips are traced, and the paw is drawn-

Hmmm.

Hmmmmmmmmm.

... I think it's depicting more than Corypheus' defeat.

But too, there's two other elements that keep rolling around in my mind with all this-

) "... On the mural, all Messere would say is, 'Skyhold is [their] fortress' (meaning of course the Inquisitor). 'These are [their] actions.' "

If these are their actions........ how does the potential for this image to be depicting the downfall of elven gods play into the picture (literally)...?

And thus, the second thought:

2. ) On that very same splash image for Inquisition, the silhouette of the dragon (with hints of wolf) is made via the energy of the Mark coming off the Inquisitor's hand. The dragon-ish creature is of the Inquisitor's making.

The creature is what the Inquisitor has made. Their actions. The mural, a depiction thereof; their choices, their efforts, their impact.

Their impact - a changed Solas... or, perhaps, one all the more committed to his cause. Fen'Harel, or a wolf-dragon hybrid, roaring at a slain dragon, sword of the Inquisition buried deep.

Trespasser, revealing just how much further Solas' network of spies and agents has expanded through the Inquisition. And whether through friendship/love or rivalry/antagonism, Solas coming away from it with his determination redoubled, his mission certain.

Whether it was intended to depict the effect of the Inquisitor on things they don't yet grasp, or their affect on him and his intent to bear out his mission........... I think this mural's about a lot, lot more than just the defeat of Corypheus.

[blarrghe]

“Wrapping arms around them when they make breakfast” Dorian x Anders, because I imagine Dorian has NEVER had a lover make him breakfast before (and Anders probably as a cat-shaped waffle iron)

Ok, as much as I love “his boyfriend makes him breakfast and it breaks Dorian” I also like, JUST did that over in my pavellan fic. It was very sweet and all, but consider: neither of these men are functional adults so who the hell is making breakfast? Still, got Anders his waffles. Anyway this directly sequels the last one again, because I’m using prompts to generate this story now I guess, and I’m really invested in this slow burn friends-to-lovers angsty mess now, so this got super long. I’m gonna start posting this as a series on AO3 I think -- also taking title suggestions XD. Thanks for dragging me into this hell :’) Here’s Breakfast:

He told himself that he was just coming along to keep an eye on him. A designated driver of sorts, just one without a car, or driver’s license, for that matter. He showed Dorian to the bar across the street and ordered himself a glass of water while Dorian asked for “the worst swill you have", with a rather large tip slapped on the bartop. He was handed something astringent smelling in a foggy glass, downed it in one quick backwards toss of his head — arching his neck, snapping back again with a shudder — and then he asked to have the bottle. 

Dorian took two more shots before he spoke. “Did you know that there was an author, horror novelist, whose mother disapproved so wholly of her marriage that after she died, she and her husband took their revenge by having sex right on her grave?” 

So. This was going to be an interesting evening. “I did know that, actually.” Anders said. 

“I’m rather a fan of hers, of her work, I mean.” he took another shot, “and of her misbehaviours. Only, do you think it would be too gouache, seeing as it’s already been done?”

Anders coughed. “Because if it hadn’t been, it wouldn’t be?” 

Dorian shrugged, and took a fourth shot. Maker, he’d finish the bottle within half an hour, at this rate. 

“I’m a fan of hers too,” Anders attempted to steer the conversation into something somewhat more...appropriate, “of her work.” He was also a fan of the story, but maybe not at this particular moment. 

“Oh?” 

Anders took a sip of his water, and signalled to the bartender to put a water glass in front of Dorian, too. “I tend to enjoy stories about misunderstood monsters,” he shrugged. 

“Me too.” Dorian ignored the water glass in favour of shot number five. “Of course, she was married to a like-minded soul, I’d have to find myself a willing participant.” 

“Strange thing to put into your dating app profile,” Anders agreed. Dark humour came easy — though he wasn’t entirely sure it was a good idea.  

“Mm. Man seeking man to fuck on father’s grave, must be willing to break cemetary locks and city bylaws. Risk of haunting, serious inquiries only.” 

Anders tried to stifle his laugh. Man seeking man, though. No. Nope. Very terrible idea. 

“I don’t suppose you’d be game?” 

Anders coughed again, his cheeks flaring up, and shook his head. “I — uh — I think that must be against...one of my oaths.” he stuttered, still flushing. 

Dorian took yet another shot, which made six. What in the world was he made of? "Yes I suppose it must be. Or should be, at any rate." His cheeks were a bit flushed too, even in the dim light, but just from the alcohol; evidently the man had no concept of shame, because next he said, "well, it was worth a shot." 

Speaking of shots. "Water," Anders instructed, moving the water glass closer to Dorian, "you should drink some water." 

"Yes doctor." Dorian obliged, taking the glass to his mouth but raking his eyes up and down Anders as he drank down the entire thing. Anders just kept on blushing. 

"I take it you and your father didn't get along?" It probably wasn't the right question to ask the recently bereaved, but he'd nearly failed that psych 101 course he'd taken in first year, and it was a step away from morbid propositions. Void, where was Merrill when he needed her? 

"You met him, didn't you?" Dorian raised an eyebrow, and with quickly failing coordination, poured himself one more shot, while spilling enough to fill another over the bartop. Anders grabbed a napkin, while Dorian threw his shot back without seeming to notice. "My father hated me." He said, once he'd swallowed. 

Tear soaked apologies and an alcohol soaked "celebration" of his death. Anders felt something in the pit of his stomach plummet that was quite removed from the growing pangs of hunger his measly lunch — a granola bar five hours ago — had left him with. 

"I'm sure he didn't —" Dorian stopped him with an ice cold look, intimidating even as he swayed in his seat. Anders frowned, there had been something in that psych course about not sharing your own traumatic experiences with a patient, even if they were relatable. Muddies the waters of who's caretaking who, or gives them ideas, or makes you look crazy too, so they lose confidence, but — "mine did, too." He gave Dorian's arm a tentative pat, and waved the bartender down for a refill of water. Dorian drank it without prompting this time, but his eyes watched Anders again, waiting for more. "Or he must've, got rid of me quick enough." 

"Ah," Dorian leaned back, a little too far, Anders tensed to catch him in case he started to fall, "then I'm an ass. Sorry." 

"No, you're —" Dorian swayed back forward with a bit of a jolt, like he'd forgotten how to stop and needed to grip the bartop to keep level. He reached for the bottle again, and Anders shot a hand out to grab it first. Their hands met, Dorian's falling on top of his over the bottle, and then in an instant Dorian's flew away again. "You're drunk." Anders said. 

"Yes," Dorian agreed, "marvelous." He went back to the water, then cast Anders' hand, still on the bottle, a hopeful look. "Though not to the point where I won't remember any of this miserable day, yet." 

Anders raised an eyebrow, and kept his hand on the bottle. 

"Not that I'm saying I wish to forget you," Dorian's eyes were pleading with him, glossy as they were, "you've been rather kind, really, it's just…" when Anders still didn't release the bottle, he groaned. Then he straightened out his face again, a mask of sensibility that was barely holding: "I'm afraid you aren't seeing me at my best, doctor Anders." 

"Just Anders." Maker, but the sadness behind it all was killing him. You're heart's too soft, Anders, he scolded himself. 

"Anders, then. Quite the name." 

"More a point of origin." Anders explained with a shrug. 

"Yes, the hair rather gives you away. And the complexion." He reached out and slipped two of his long fingers through a strand of Anders' strawberry hair, which was falling in a straggled mess about his temples. Anders flinched, pulling his head back, and Dorian frowned apologetically. "Pretty. You're very pretty." He said. Anders shook his head and rolled his eyes — the man was drunk — but blushed again. 

"It's what the circle gave me," Anders explained the name with another shrug. He wasnt entirely sure why he was volunteering so much personal information to this perfect stranger. Perhaps he felt it was owed, after witnessing the death of the man's father, and all he'd overheard. Or maybe it was those eyes...

"Oh." Another apologetic frown, "and you ran away to Tevinter? Well, you wouldn't be the first." Anders nodded. "Where from?" 

Anders chuckled dryly, "Kirkwall, most recently." 

"Oof." Dorian grunted a drunken sound of disgust, and Anders chuckled again, "how in the world do you manage not to drink?" 

Anders’ laugh grew stronger, he shook his head and took another sip of his water, while Dorian redirected his attention once more to the bottle still protected by his hand, as though just now remembering his plight. "One more, I promise I'll be good." He begged. 

"Speaking as a doctor, I think you've had enough." 

"I thought you were off duty." 

"You're going to make yourself sick." 

"Then it's lucky I'm with a doctor." 

Anders sighed, and poured him one more slightly scant shot. Dorian frowned at the way the alcohol didn't reach the rim of the glass, but threw it back with a grateful sigh. 

“Can I call you a cab, Dorian?” Anders offered, watching worriedly as Dorian gave his head a dramatic shake and swayed a little more back and forth. The bar was emptying out, and last call was coming upon them. He cast a glance at the old watch ticking away on his wrist, mentally calculating how long it would be until he could be at home, in his bed. Not that he minded keeping the miserable man company, quite the opposite, despite everything. He had a pull to him Anders couldn’t quite explain; the eyes again, probably. But the bus came once an hour at this time of night, and didn’t stop at the closer stop, just the well-lit main hub that lay several blocks from his apartment — another fifteen minutes of walking after he got off, so a good hour or more to get home, altogether, if he left now. 

“Is it that time already?” Dorian sounded disappointed, spinning the empty shot glass around on the bar, then with a sudden spark of concern in his eyes he turned his face to Anders, “I’ve kept you too long, haven’t I? How dreadfully selfish of me, I —” he was sputtering a rather pitiful apology, and Anders’ stomach fell again at the sight of it. 

“It’s alright,” he said gently, muscle memory finding the soft smile he used for giving bad news to patients, “your father died today, you don’t have to apologize to me.”

“Yes, father died…” Dorian got a far-off look in those cold eyes of his, and then directed them back at his empty glass, “and you — you had to, I mean, here I am wasting your time when you must be — selfish —”�� all at once, his face crumpled, and the guilty muttering gave way to tears. Shit. 

Anders patted his back once, carefully, and Dorian seemed to utterly collapse under his touch, sobbing into the sticky countertop. Anders took a deep breath, and dragged him up again. He tossed a tip of his own onto the bar as the bartender shot them an aggravated look, and hauled Dorian away, draping his arms over his shoulders. Dorian slumped into him, heavy, hunched over, still crying, as Anders pushed through the door of the bar and into the balmy night air, awash with the putrid stench of dumpsters in the alley and the sick coughed up by the bar’s less restrained patrons. It all made him a little homesick. Dorian, hanging halfway off of him, lurched forward like he was about to add his own mess to the stink in the alley, but then he righted himself again, and propped himself up using Anders’ shoulder. Anders took the opportunity to pull out his phone. 

“Where am I sending you?” he asked helpfully. Dorian made another face that seemed to threaten that he was about to be sick. 

“I’m not going back there,” he muttered, less to Anders than to the ground. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Just help me find my car?” 

“You can’t drive.” 

“I’ll sleep in it — I left it in the lot.” 

“No.” 

Dorian pushed himself off of Anders, propelling himself away from his shoulder, and staggered forward a step. Then he seemed to change his mind, or realise he was in no state to walk on his own, and reached an arm out to fall back against the wall of the alley.

“No?” He asked, incredulous as Anders took his arm and draped it back over himself, walking them out of the alley and the stink. 

“I’m not letting you sleep in your car,” Anders shook his head as he dragged the man forward. He was heavier than he looked. Strong, too, if the grip on his shoulder was any indication. “Besides, I can’t risk leaving you in a vehicle, if you did something stupid that would be on me.” 

Dorian snorted, “do you think I’m stupid?” 

“I don’t know you well enough to judge.” Anders answered honestly, which seemed to amuse Dorian. 

“I’m not stupid.” he said, “very, very smart, actually.” he insisted. Anders nodded appreciatively. 

“Alright then, so you see why I can’t just leave you in the hospital parking lot, in your condition.” 

“Mm. Kind of you, but I can think of worse places.” So could Anders, but he shuddered to think what could happen to Dorian if he left him alone like this, drunk and stumbling and wearing the most expensive looking suit he’d ever seen; he’d already flashed his overstuffed wallet far too openly when ordering his drinks inside. “Is there a hotel? I could buy a hotel.” Dorian slurred. 

Anders was fairly certain he’d forgotten a word in his suggestion, but given the suit and the wallet, maybe not. Before Anders could answer, he lurched forward and away from him again, back towards the alley, and into a spasming sort of crouch, retching. 

Anders took an instinctive step back as Dorian gagged and sputtered out a vomit of mostly liquid and bile onto the broken stone of the alleyway, then remembered his physician’s training, and rushed forward to steady him. Between coughs, Dorian swore, and when he finished (miraculously, his suit and shoes were still unharmed), he began to cry again. Anders sighed, and once more feeling a little bit homesick, he breathed out an all too familiar refrain: “well, shit.” he said. 

“Not —” Dorian was stuttering apologetically at him now, “not my best.” He wiped at his tears, swore again, then got up from his crouch and began to stumble forward once more, heading the wrong way down the alley. Anders took him by the shoulders and led him out again. 

“Hotel?” The word smushed out of him with so much drunken misery that Anders felt almost like crying for him, and he sighed again, pulling out his phone. 

“I’m taking you home,” he dialed the number and gave the taxi company their location, then propped Dorian up against the wall of the bar that faced the street, rather than the alley, keeping an eye on his paling face and shaky breathing. 

“What, your home?"  

Anders nodded, “if you choke on your vomit and die in your hotel room, I’ll feel responsible,” he explained as Dorian looked up at him with a perplexed, and dare he say it, even eager look. 

“Very kind of you, doctor Anders.” he said, but before Anders could correct him on the honorific again, he stooped and threw up, so doctor Anders it was. 

——

Dorian all but fell asleep in the taxi, head drooping down into his chest, swaying this way and that as the car rounded the corners, but thankfully he kept from throwing up any more. The luck didn’t hold once they were inside Anders’ apartment though, and soon Anders had him steadied in a kneel over his toilet bowl, getting out the rest of it. Dorian flung most of his clothes off before throwing up this time, wrestling himself out of the suit jacket and tight shirt beneath it, while Anders tried not to be impressed. He had a really remarkable physique, but he was also lurching and coughing miserably into Anders’ toilet, so it was definitely not something to admire. Then he got him onto the couch, set a large bowl on the floor by his head, and coaxed him into one more glass of water before letting him lie down. Dorian offered him another tearful apology, and then tearful thanks, and then he passed out. Anders sat back in a chair across from him for a while, watching as his breathing slowed to a steady rise and fall, ensuring that his head was turned to the side, mouth facing the bowl, in case he was to vomit any more in his sleep, and then he finally, finally, stumbled his own way to bed. 

He woke to the sound of his cupboards banging shut and the kettle screeching to a whistle.

Anders stumbled out into his kitchen to find Dorian standing there with a distraught look on his face, pouring water into two large mugs. He was dressed again, and looking remarkably perfect, actually. Hair all in place and posture all upright once more. The bowl was gone from the floor, too, and nothing smelled off — just a little like tea. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked, suddenly aware of his own shabby pajamas. 

Dorian turned, still looking distraught. "You don't have any food." He complained, "I fed your cat —" Anders looked down to the corner of the kitchen where Ser Pounce's food bowl was, and found Ser Pounce there happily nibbling from a bowl filled to slightly too full, "I hope that's alright. I woke up with him on my chest and he wouldn't stop pawing at that cabinet so I figured…" 

Anders smiled softly, and not in a practiced way, he'd entirely forgotten to check the food bowl when they came in the night before, occupied as he'd been. 

"And then I saw you had a coffee pot, so I was going to make coffee, as a thank you — well, actually, I was going to have some delivered, but I don't rightly know where I am —" Dorian ran a hand through his hair, and he was talking quite speedily, cheeks going just slightly pink "but you don't have coffee. Or anything." 

Now Anders blushed, embarrassed for the nakedness of his cupboards. 

"Anyway, thank you. Tea?" 

Anders nodded, and took the few remaining steps to the counter to grab one of the mugs of still steeping tea; he liked to keep the bag in. He moved from the counter to the couch, cupping the mug with both hands, and sat down. 

"117 Orseck Ave.," he said, "that's where you are. How are you feeling… how much of last night do you remember?" 

"I remember making a fool of myself, if that's what you're asking. And you being uncommonly kind." He paused, "it is Anders, right?" Anders nodded, "is there anything else I should remember, Anders?" 

Anders shook his head, "that about sums it up." 

Dorian chuckled. When he wasn't drunk or crying, it was a nice sound. He leaned against Anders' counter — stunning, how was he stunning after a night like the one he'd just had? "Well, you've certainly wasted enough of your time looking after me, and I can get out of your hair now, but —"  

"— I wouldn't call it a waste of time," Anders interrupted, because something in him always seemed to speak up whenever Dorian went about making statements like that. It kind of had been a waste of his time, Anders tried to protest against that something, he'd lost a great deal of sleep to it, anyway. But somehow the look that his interruption gained him from Dorian was impossible to remain grumpy with. 

"Have you been to Marc's?" Dorian asked suddenly, brightening with a hopeful smile, "since I know where we are now, and its nearby, and you have no food," he went on, "and personally, I'm starving —" 

"I imagine you would be," Anders said, though at the mention of hunger his own stomach took the opportunity to awaken too, noisily. Dorian raised an eyebrow at the sound. 

"Might I buy you breakfast? I feel I owe you that much." 

Anders hadn't been to Marc's. He'd been by it many times, a busy little brunch place, always smelling of bacon and pancakes and with a line out the door. It was a bad idea to say yes to this, he thought, a bad idea to say yes to anything involving absurdly handsome men who just lost their fathers, who were obviously walking disasters waiting to happen (you always had a thing for disasters waiting to happen) — shush. His stomach grumbled again. 

"I haven't been," Anders answered, "there's always a line — and I am on call, I might not have time to —" 

"Oh, we can skip all that." Dorian brushed the protest aside, "so? Don't try to tell me you aren't hungry." 

Anders kicked at a bit of cat hair fluff adorning the edge of his couch, "alright, sure."

Dorian was certainly good at getting him to say yes to things he should know better than to say yes to. If he kept going on like this, the next thing he knew he'd be having sex on his father's grave. 

---- 

They arrived at the restaurant, just a short walk from Anders' building, and yet in a considerably nicer part of town — the new money was creeping in towards his end of things, but where he lived at least was still very much no money — and Dorian walked straight up to the front of the line. Anders hung back, watching skeptically as Dorian performed a series of intricate maneuvers: some charm, a smile, a handshake Anders recognized from Varric — the kind with a bill snuck inside — and then he turned, waving Anders over. 

"We can wait ten minutes for a table, or have our food prepared now and take it outside. Your choice." He smiled. Maker, such a good smile; straight teeth and a brilliantly white gleam. "But you're on call, right? And to be honest with you, the fresh air is making me feel considerably less queasy. Park across the street?" Anders nodded and shrugged at the same time, a gesture that seemed to satisfy Dorian into continuing to take charge of the situation. "Alright then, to go. And fast, if you can. We're both very busy and important." He winked at the young hostess as he was handed two paper menus, and Anders could have sworn she blushed brighter than the checkerboard red on the apron she wore. "What do you fancy?" Dorian asked him, handing over one of the papers. 

It was diner food, but not really. Poached eggs with house-smoked bacon over an heirloom tomato coulis, waffles with Orlesian creme sauce and glazed berries, rare wheat pancakes with apple cinnamon compote and vanilla syrup  — just a few options, all of them coming with a detailed list of decadent flavours. In addition to those few confounding main courses was a fresh juice list filled with exotic fruits Anders had never even heard of, and approximately twenty different kinds of coffee. 

"Uh, waffles?" He said, squinting at the menu, "waffles and coffee?" 

Dorian beamed some more, and took back his menu to point out the waffle dish, as well as several other things, confidently ordering far more food than could possibly be necessary as well as coffee and one of the strange fruit juices while insisting that Anders simply had to try it. The patient employee nodded and hurried away, and not ten minutes later came back with two plastic bags stuffed near splitting with cardboard containers, and a tray of drinks. Dorian thanked her with another winning smile and secretly-funded handshake, and then they were off. 

The park across the street had benches, so they sat on one — finding one in the shade of a great, leafy tree, as even the morning sun was warm. Then, Dorian began a conversation, and the whole thing was far less awkward than Anders had expected. Dorian asked about his work, so Anders described some of it, though he avoided anything too close to topics of death and dying, and Dorian held his gaze while he talked and asked compelling questions. He seemed to be, as claimed, very smart, and the food was practically otherworldly. Then Anders asked Dorian about his work in turn, and Dorian sighed. 

"Well, you're new here, aren't you? How much do you know about Tevinter politics? The intricacies of it all can take a lifetime to wrap one's head around. That's by design; keeps things all tied up with the upper classes who have it in their blood to be intollerable bureaucrats." His air was flippant, but altogether disapproving, which Anders appreciated. 

"I've been here a while now, actually. A couple of years, anyway, I understand it a bit. Political science was always my…'' downfall? "Second passion." He washed down a heaping forkful of creme covered waffles made of pure fairy dust and clouds with whatever exciting fruit drink Dorian had handed him — it tasted like bright green, with a hint of citrus. "I feel people should be informed — active. Healthcare is as political as it is practical." And mage freedom, that was political too, but they didn't have to get into that. Mages were already free in Tevinter. Other kinds of people, however — something bitter bit at the back of his mind. But it was too sunny, and the food too good, for that sort of conversation. 

Dorian nodded approvingly, his eyes lighting up. "Alright then, I'm an Altus. I argue things in circles in the house a lot, these days I've been losing all sorts of friends arguing this Sopperati electorate reformation bill," Anders' eyes widened, impressed. He'd been following the progress of it, a huge step for increased class equality, if it passed. So maybe it was just sunny enough for such a conversation. "but of course it can only go so far without approval from the Magisterium," Dorian went on, a slight growl of frustration colouring his tone, which was appealing in a different way, "and for that we need to convince those with seats in the — in the —'' he stopped, and some of the light fell from his eyes. "I just remembered that my father is dead." He said. Shit. Not a sunny conversation, after all. "His seat passes to me, you see, because nepotism still runs stronger than good sense and he's written my name into all these continuations of his legacy and…" he sighed, and stabbed hard at a piece of brilliantly poached egg, which honestly didn't deserve it, "sorry. It's going to be a very hectic and difficult few weeks, with all the ceremony and paperwork and the whole ordeal of burying him…" he scooped up some of his bleeding egg yolk with a wedge of toast, and went silent in favour of eating, while Anders took an uncomfortable sip of juice that seemed to have lost some of its vividness. "You've been here for years, you said?" Dorian changed the subject, refocusing on Anders. Anders nodded, still awkwardly sucking up juice through the straw of his cup. "I would have sworn you were an escapee fresh from the harbour." 

"Why?" Anders bristled a little. 

"Your apartment. You have no food or furniture," Anders bristled a little more, "and you've never been to Marc's", Anders frowned, furrowing his brow at the impossibly good, impossibly expensive waffles, "and you're too nice." Dorian finished. Anders looked up in surprise, catching Dorian's eye. They were still a bit lost for light, but soft on him. 

"I'm just very busy," Anders shrugged. And very poor, but, well, Dorian probably thought anyone with fewer than a thousand acres of family land was poor, given his status. He didn't need to know the extent of it. 

"Hm," Dorian's eyes were still on him, soft and thoughtful, "what else haven't you done?" Anders shrugged, and Dorian began listing things. Tourist attractions and famed galleries, but also other, lesser-known offerings of the city that Anders had never even heard of. 

"Ferry through the archipelegos?" 

"No." 

"The volcanic sand beaches?"

"No." 

"Dinner at the top of Tidarion Tower?" 

"No." 

And on like that, until he finally said yes to something — taking in a show at the infamous burlesque playhouse in the city's red light district, which elicited an eyebrow raise.

"Priorities, I see." Dorian chuckled, "at least you have good taste." He reached an arm up over Anders' side of the bench, as he finished with his food and slid the box away, very smooth. "I'd have offered to take you. Maybe one of the others sometime, then, if you've a mind." He suggested. Anders could feel his cheeks beginning to run hot again. Still a bad idea, he reminded himself. Apparently sensing his unease, Dorian removed his arm from its perch near Anders' shoulders. "May I say something painfully honest?" he asked. 

Anders swallowed, but he managed a smirk as he replied. "I think we're well past that," he said. 

Dorian shook his head with a dry chuckle, "yes, well. I'm all out of sorts, as you may have noticed." 

Anders chuckled too, but with him, not at. 

"And normally, if I'm to get drunk and go home with a stranger, it all goes a certain way," then he actually winked, which on him was somehow charming and not over the top at all. Anders swallowed again, "and, not that I'm opposed, but, well, as I said: you've been uncommonly kind. I could — I've been losing friends left and right lately, it seems, with this bill, and…" 

"I'm a fan of the bill," Anders said, "in fact I'm not sure it goes far enough." 

The interruption seemed to lend Dorian some more confidence, as though he needed it, "so, pretty as you may be, I could use a, uh —" 

Anders blushed again, but finished for him, "a friend?" He could use one too, if he was being honest. Near everything seemed to be making him homesick, lately. 

Dorian nodded. "If that's not too forward." He said. 

"You fed my cat," Anders replied, "as far as I'm concerned, we're already friends." 

At that, Dorian smiled. He asked Anders his cat's name, and chuckled at the answer, and then they exchanged phone numbers and Anders stuck a little cat next to his own name as he entered it into Dorian's contact screen, which had him laughing even more. Anders offered to put the puking emoji next to Dorian's in return, but he insisted on a snake, because he “had a reputation to uphold”. Then Anders’ pager went off, and he groaned inwardly, wishing he could spend the day in the sun for once. 

“Duty calls?” 

Anders grimaced, and stood up. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said, meaning it. Dorian stood too. 

“You should take the rest — actually, this may be awkard, but I think we’re going the same way.” His car. Of course. 

“You’re going to have a small fortune to pay in parking tickets,” Anders realised, frowning. 

“Oh that’s fine. I have one of those — big, actually.” he winked again, “very big.” Sweet Maker, he just never stopped. 

Dorian insisted on a cab, and then he insisted on paying for it, and then he insisted on Anders taking the rest of their uneaten brunch items to store in the breakroom for his lunch, and then finally he was ready to let him go, with a promise to be in touch. He extended his hand for Anders to shake. Anders took it, holding fast with a sure grip, and then, drawn in yet again by those cool, sad eyes, he pulled Dorian’s arm towards him, and wrapped him up in a tight hug. 

Dorian stumbled back afterwards, cheeks flush, eyes glinting with surprise. “What was that for?” 

“Just seemed like you needed it,” Anders said. 

Dorian was still blushing, and his smile warmed Anders’ own cheeks. “Suppose I did,” he agreed. 

“Take care, Dorian.”

“As you say, doctor.”

[superdillin]

It's Better if You Do - Stripper AU Dorian X Lavelan

How did Seren let the two of them talk him into this in the first place, anyway?  A strip club wouldn’t fix his problems or help him get over Fin.  Still, they managed to persuade him and it would seem they were having more fun than you’d expect, considering they weren't remotely interested in men at all.  Still, here they were, Sera and Dagna taking ‘body shots’ and shoving their last remaining dollars down this nice fella’s hotpants.

And Seren tried to make himself as small and invisible as possible.  Sure, these guys were nice to look at, but he was lonely and heartbroken, not horny, looking to scratch an itch.  Staring at some straight boys gyrate in their underwear for a crowd of drunk women wasn’t going to fill the kind of need he had.

The dancers could mostly tell, it seemed, that Seren was uninterested.  No one came to his table beside the bartender, refilling his pint glass.  The stage did intrigue him, however.  There was a brass pole in the center that most of the men dancing seemed to use as a prop to grind against.  He’d wondered all night if any of them ever used it the way he’d seem women dancers do, or gymnasts.

I’m sure this is exactly what Sera and Dagna wanted me to be thinking about tonight, he mused to himself.

Sera brought over a pair of shots and placed one in his hand.  “You could at least try to have fun, y’know,” she said after they emptied their glasses.  “I don’t know what you see in men, but some of them are pretty, right?”

“I am having fun,” Sarcasm dripped from his lips.  “In fact, I feel better already.  Fin who?  Can we go now?”

“Fine,” She groaned.  “One more drink, though.  Then we’ll leave.”

Seren conceded with a roll of his eyes as she hopped back over to the dwarf at the bar.  His eyes froze there when they caught the stage.  A young man had walked out who was beyond striking.  Not much older than Seren by estimation, he had brown skin with natural highlights that seemed to glitter softly under the warm lighting, silver-grey eyes Seren swore sparkled, and tone muscles simply everywhere.  He wore red satin boxers that…clung in places, and two more red scarves tied around him just above his hip bones.

No one was nearby to tell Seren that his mouth was agape like a fool, and when the man began to dance, the poor boy forgot to breathe.  The dancer gripped the pole with only one hand and still, his feet hovered just above the stage as he spun, the light dancing across his skin as he moved.

He was strong without question, but there was more than that.  His movements were fluid and graceful, his body moving at a glacial pace from pose to pose both on the pole and off.

Seren tried to pull his eyes away when his friends returned, but it was too late, Dagna caught him staring.

“Finally,” she yelped.  “Someone shiny caught his eye!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Sera lifted her shot glass and, slightly hot with embarrassment, Seren touched glasses and drank his shot down.  With her lime chaser still in her mouth, Sera spoke over the music, “Change of plans, Lavellan.  We’re not going anywhere until we get you one dance with Sparkle Boy over there.”

Seren rolled his eyes with obligation but made no attempt to argue.

Once the dancer left the stage, he began walking the floor, smiling and making eyes at the gawking women and happily taking their contributions.  Seren took a deep breath, thinking he would just give a spectacular tip, tell him he’s a phenomenal dancer, and drag his stupid friends right out of here.

Sera just couldn’t let it be.

“Sparkle boy!” She yelled, waving too enthusiastically.  “Come over here!”  It looked like he was smiling, maybe laughing, as he obliged and came to their table, taking a seat next to Sera.  Seren tried not to stare.  Seren failed.

“Charmed to meet you gorgeous ladies,” his voice was deep velvet with an accent immediately identifiable as Tevene.  The noise in the club was enough to hide the hitch in Seren’s breath.  “If you enjoyed the show, could I interest you in something a little more...private?”

Dagna giggled loud and nervous, “Oh, oh my, Maker, no.  No thank you.  I mean, you’re cute and all, it’s just that --”

“We like girls,” her girlfriend cut her off with just a hint of a slur.  “Specifically each other.  But our friend here…”

Seren’s heart palpitated as the dancer turned his gaze on him.

“It’s his first time and he just got his heart broken by some twit,” she continued.  “He needs some dick in the face, or whatever it is you lot do, to get him to snap out of it.”

The man laughed, which relieved Seren a little bit.  He adored her, but some people were put off by his best friend’s audacious nature.

“Well now,” he pried.  “What a treat.”

“Really,” Seren objected. “It’s okay, I’m...I’m not sure this is something I...Look, you’re an amazing dancer and --” Seren dug into his pocket to tip as he intended, but it was gone.  A moment of panic set in until Sera held it up between her fingers.

“Uh-uh, rich boy,” She teased.  “This is happening.  How much?”

The dancer leaned in, putting a soft hand on Seren’s and holding his gaze.  “The poor man is so nervous,” he said.  “I think he’ll need time, and champagne.  That’s two hundred.”  His fingers danced on the skin of Seren’s palm.  “Worth every penny, you’ll see.”

Seren tried to protest, but the act was pointless.  To be alone with this man, drinking champagne?  Even if it were just a job to him...it sounded too decadent to pass up.  And, before he could pretend to object, he was being led by the hand away from the crowd.

In the back, the music was muffled by the walls, quiet enough that Seren worried he could hear his nervous breathing.  The room was comfortable.  Seren took a seat on the soft couch and more warm, red lights accentuated the flow of the dancer’s skin.  A bucket of ice sat upon a small round table, full of champagne and two glasses.

“What do I…” Seren caught himself stuttering and cleared his throat to start over.  “I never caught your stage name.”

The dancer poured their glasses before joining him on the couch.  He sat so close that Seren felt his warmth in the air around him.  He handed over one of the full glasses and answered Seren’s query.

“Maleficar,” he smirked.  “That’s what you can call me.”

Seren took a generous sip from his glass, trying to shake his nerves. “Is that Tevene?”

Maleficar’s eyebrows rose a bit, “Good catch, an underappreciated language.  I’m sure you’d agree.”

“I’m afraid I don’t really know any,” he answered honestly.  “Growing up Elven we were discouraged from learning anything that, well, wasn’t Elven.”

Seren was rewarded with an honest laugh.  “Quite right.  Well, I hope you feel differently about such things.  There’s quite a lot of this world to know.”

Seren wanted to ask a million questions, he wanted to find out who this person was.   The way he spoke, he sounded worldly and smart, and Seren wondered if he was a scholar.  What might he be studying?  Has he travelled, seen the world?  What brought him here,  to Ferelden of all places?  Did he miss Tevinter?

But he knew that wasn’t fair to ask.  The poor guy’s just trying to work, don’t invade his personal life.  Just drink your damn champagne.

He did settle for one question, however.  “Can I ask what it means?  Maleficar?”

The dancer leaned in even closer, his mouth so very near the most sensitive part of Seren’s ear.  Just his breath against it made him forget all his manners, and when he spoke it made him weak.

“It means ‘depraved’,” He sunk his voice deeper on the word, driving Seren to madness.  He was fully aware of how painfully hard he was, and the man hadn’t so much as touched him.

“If you’re curious about Tevinter culture,” he continued against his ear, sending shivers through him.  “I’ve a dance that will really enlighten you.”

One thing was sure, he wasn’t thinking about Fin anymore.

Maleficar stood up and untied one of the red silk scarves from around his waist.  Finding the rhythm of the music coming softly through the walls, he began to move.  Just like his stage set, his movements were slow and deliberate, pausing briefly in the poses that showcased him well.

Moving to the space just between Seren’s feet on the floor, he threw the scarf as a loop behind the back of the elf’s neck, holding both ends and pulling toward him just enough to create tension between them.

For long minutes, Lavellan’s eyes traveled back and forth between those piercing grey eyes and the dip in the muscles just above his boxers.  His hips were swaying in time, mesmerizing, as his hands pulled just a bit more on the scarf.  With eyes trained downward on Seren, he slowly came forward to sit straddled across his lap.

From here, Seren could smell him, not the light scent of cinnamon and sugar he sprayed on, but the delicious must just below that, it smelled like earth with his bare chest only an inch from his own.  And when Meleficar lowered his hips to his, Seren realized just how little fabric was between them.  For a moment, the dancer sat still in his lap, wrapping the scarf from behind his neck, under his arms, and up so that when Maleficar caressed Seren’s face with his hands, Seren felt the sensation of silk across his skin.

The faintest “Wow” escaped Seren’s lips, all the shame of enjoying this completely evaporated.  The man heard, and smiled, moving his hips again, this time against the hardness beneath Seren’s pants.  It was simply that for a while, with no words spoken, only deep breaths.  The elf trained his hands to the couch, trying desperately not to work himself up too much, to not forget that this man is just doing his job.

Doing his job well, he thought.  So, so well.

At some point, Maleficar took his hands from Seren’s neck and reached down to grab his.  Slowly, he moved them up until they were resting on the bare skin of his hips.  Seren cast his eyes up to look at the handsome face only inches away from his own.

“I thought this wasn’t allowed?” He whispered.  “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The man leaned in, this time his cheek grazing Seren’s as he spoke in his ear.  “It’s dancer’s discretion.  And believe me.  After another long shift of pretending to be attracted to women, this is a welcome indulgence for me.”

Don’t panic, Lavellan, he thought.  Sure, the gorgeous man currently grinding my lap just told me he was gay and enjoying this, but he’s also the man I paid to be grinding my lap.  It's just a bit. Relax.

He tried to continue reasoning with himself but the dancer’s hips were rocking against him harder now, and his chest was fully pressed against him.  Both of them had heaving breaths and soon Lavellan couldn’t keep focused at all.  His hands traveled the skin of his sides and back, and Maleficar’s hands had dropped the scarf, touching his face and neck with only bare skin.

Very, very good at his job. The diminished voice of reason in his head tried to argue.  Solid work ethic.

The Tevene man’s face was now an inch from his, each warm breath landing on Seren’s lips, and they both were in rhythm against each other now.  Their speed and intensity kept increasing, and eventually, a soft and genuine moan slipped from Maleficar’s lips onto Seren’s, which Seren leaned forward to catch, pressing their lips tight against each other for a long quiet moment before sobriety washed over them.

Maleficar pulled back, never stopping his dance, but slowing.  “Unfortunately that really isn’t allowed.”

“Oh, Creators,” Seren said, trying to wriggle himself free from under him.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m so, so foolish and you are so terribly good at what you’re doing.  I’m sorry, please, excuse me.  I’ll get my wallet from my friend, you were magnificent before I went and ruined it.  I'm sorry, I'll come right back.”

He rushed out of the room to find Sera in the crowd. She was easy to spot, an elf and her Dwarven girlfriend making out against the wall. All Seren needed to do was walk up and whisk his own wallet out of her pocket, heading back to the private rooms.

When he got back, the dancer was standing, a robe wrapped around him. Seren hated himself for the thoughts that were still bubbling in his brain when he looked at him.

The look on Maleficar’s face was difficult to read. Sad, or angry, maybe a mix of both, one couldn't tell. Seren grabbed whatever cash was left in his wallet after the girls decimated it, and reached out to hand it over.

He was fully prepared to head right back out the way he came, but concern and curiosity got the better of him.

“Are you alright,” he asked, clarifying “you don't have to answer, I just really hope I didn't ruin your night.”

The man stepped forward, “Ruin my night?” he sounded genuinely full of surprise. “I made my goals for the evening and I got to do it drinking champagne with a handsome elf.”

Seren was quiet, his confusion plainly read on his face. In response, the man stepped even closer.

“I know,” he let out a knowing laugh. “You can't figure out what I'm saying is true and what is work. It's alright.” He slipped one arm around Seren’s very tense waist, and the other placed a small scrap of paper into his hand.  “Maybe you'd have an easier time trusting me somewhere else.”

With a quick pace, Maleficar slipped out of the room. By the time Seren followed, he wasn't in sight. Grabbing his friends, he insisted that now was definitely the time to go, and he waited until they were both passed out in the cab ride home to uncurl his fingers from around the paper.

Dorian

555-9060

[lesetoilesfous]

Tales from the Scrap File

I was tagged by @barbex to post something from my scrap file and that’s just, delightful, so thank you

I don’t, exactly, have a scrap file but I do endlessly regale my partner @sewertwink with whatsapp fic outlines, so here’s one of those translated into bullet points. I...got carried away. I won’t be writing this out properly, so figured I could share it as it is. Here we go!

I’m tagging @fairandfatalasfair, @wanderingnork, @midnightprelude, @pinkfadespirit, @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold aaand @hollyand-writes!

Fandom: DA2

Ship: Fenris / Anders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Marian Hawke, Bethany Hawke, Varric Tethras, Isabela

Tags: Modern AU, still magic mages and elves, Homelessness, reference to prostitution, reference to past abuse, reference to past rape/non-con (not explicit) bigotry, canon-typical violence, unsubtle references to detention centres, shitty governments and shitty police

Rating: M

Anders in a ratty t shirt and old jeans and sneakers with holes on them and a ponytail and earrings (and nipples piercings owo) and tattoos and they meet at a laundromat

Fenris black skinny jeans and band t shirts and won’t talk about Tevinter, was a refugee and got out and now works in a record store and is friends with Hawke and the gang and anyway one day this guy shows up and chats him up, this guy in a thin t shirt with bright clever eyes

Anders is just like hey that wouldn’t be so terrible

Every time Fenris goes to the laundromat this cute guy is there, yawning like a cat and pulling up his t shirt and revealing that little v and a freckles back and a ginger blonde happy trail

And Anders notices him looking and winks and grins and anyway they fuck and Fenris’ bed is tiny but so soft and Anders just wriggles into it and lets himself sleep in because it’s been so long since he slept in an actual bed

Fenris meanwhile, whilst he can have casual sex, is a considerate lover and noticed the way Anders’ ribs were sticking out and cooks him breakfast and Anders wakes up and bats his eyelashes and is like “you know for that I could be convinced to go for round two” and Fenris kinda flushes and is like “some of us have to go to work” and Anders pouts and sighs and leans back and stretches out, arching his back and noticing the way Fenris’ gaze flickers to the piercings on his nipples (rose gold) “fine fine fine”

Because Fenris goes “what do you do, anyway?” And Anders grins and his fingers spark as he drags his hand up his bare chest and he’s like “take a wild guess” but Fenris is staring at him because he suddenly feels sick because that’s a mage, in his bed, who he just - and he gets up and all but snarls “get out!” And for a second Anders flinches and Fenris almost regrets it’s but then Anders is pouting and sighing and pulling his clothes on (it’s not exactly the worst way he’s been kicked out and maybe if he’s quick this one won’t rough him up) and he’s gone

So Anders is back on the street. And at first it’s fine - Fenris doesn’t see him at the laundromat again (which sucks for Anders because that place was bright and warm and mostly safe and smelled nice) - and he just. Moves on with his life. Doesn’t tell anyone he slept with a mage, hopes he can forget it

Meanwhile the police commissioner is calling for more and more severe measures to identify and take in mages - Fenris’ friends hate commissioner Meredith and he’s had enough loud arguments with Hawke about her apostate sister that he knows not to bring it up now

People in the city are getting tense but Fenris mostly just keeps his head down and volunteers at a centre for Tevinter refugees where he helps new refugees acclimatise to Thedas and speaking common

Meanwhile Anders is back on the street and mostly trying to keep his head down. He’s high one night though and making out with some guy in an alley and kinda hoping this one will take him home because it’s been getting cold when he breathes a little magic into the air  and the guy, turns out, not a big fan of mages, and Anders still high on the drugs and dizzy with it and the guys ends up kicking the shit out of him and Anders passes out in a gutter

So Fenris is at work and taking a delivery when he sees a body in the alley and he just kind of drops  what he’s doing, and then he gets closer and realises it’s the blonde from the laundromat. And Fenris just states and he’s kneeling in the trash and this guy’s clothes are torn and his face is a mess and his wrists are bruised and his makeup is smeared  and for half a second Fenris thinks about leaving and just pretending he hasn’t seen this. But he can’t and he wouldn’t be who he is if he did this. And despite everything it’s one thing to think about calling the police and seeing this man taken off to a mage detention centre and another to actually do it to the person who’d been blushing at him in his bed a few weeks ago

So Fenris doesn’t call the cops or an ambulance, he picks up the man and carries him ton the store room and calls Hawke and has a very quiet nervous breakdown

None of this is helped by the punters who keep trying to strike up conversation with him in the shop when they hear his accent “you’re from tevinter right? You of all people must understand why we need stricter regulation on mages” and on the one hand Fenris does and on the other hand he has an illegal mage sleeping on his sofa

Hawke’s sister Bethany knows some first aid and presumably knows Magic Stuff so she brings her round and Bethany confirms that aside from broken ribs, a sprained ankle and some nasty bruising Anders is going to be fine (though she’s hesitant to search for signs of sexual abuse without his consent). She confirms that his magic feels like healing magic though, which is a relief for Fenris because hey hopefully that means he can fix himself and Leave

Anders wakes up on a sofa and is Very Confused and then Fenris comes out and Anders kinda pulls up the blanket, realises he’s wearing different clothes (his old ones had been covered in trash and blood and infections are a problem) and kinda nervously scans Fenris’ face and is like “hey you haven’t decided I’m your one true love have you? Because things didn’t go well with the last guy who did that”

And Fenris is just confused and like “no you were injured I found you can you leave yet” and Anders immediately gets to his feet - everything hurts - and he makes it about halfway across the tiny living room before collapsing and he’s going to catch himself but Fenris is there and Anders gets real tense and is nervously chattering like “hey listen look if you’re the kind of person who’s always dreamt about have your own personal mage I get it, I really do, but we’re so much less fun in reality - we have this nasty habit of exploding into rage monsters if we get too scared and neither of us want that - so how about you just let me go and I’ll go find a different neighbourhood to sleep in and we’ll both forget this ever happened ok?”

And Fenris is just very confused and then horrified and let’s go of him and is like “I’m not planning to - I have no intention of keeping you here against your will.” And Anders’ whole body relaxes but he’s still nervously looking at the door and he’s like “ok great so can I go now?” And then suddenly there are footsteps on the stairs and Anders flinches back and is like “you didn’t - did you call the MDC?” And Fenris scowls at him and is like “should I have?” And Anders shakes his head and the footsteps fade away and Anders is shaking now and is like “did you - have you told anyone?” And Fenris is trying not to be frightened of a clearly very out of control, very frightened mage but he backs up a bit and is reaching for a phone and Anders holds his hands out and there are scars and track marks up and down his arms and he’s like “no don’t! Ok! Ok I’ll do anything you want. Come on. There’s got to be something you want from me. Name it. Want me to do some kind of roleplay? Pretend to be a templar catching the nasty mage? We can do that, you can even rough me up a bit if you want just. Don’t. Call them.”

And Fenris is Overwhelmed but he drops the phone and Anders nearly crumples in relief and he’s like “thank you” and then he kind of takes a deep breath and shakes it off and runs a hand through his hair and is like “ok alright how do you want to do this?” And Fenris is like “I’m not going to abuse you” And Anders looks like he’s about three seconds from falling apart so Fenris clarifies, “I’m not calling the MDC either. Despite my better judgement.” (And also several loud threats from Hawke.) and Anders just stares at him and is like “ok, alright. So what do you want? I don’t do blood magic.” And Fenris nearly punches him but there’s enough space between them and he’s like “I don’t want you to do blood magic” and Anders relaxes a little more and is like “so what is it?” And Fenris is like “nothing. I just. You looked like you needed help.” And Anders scoffs and Fenris is like “what?” And Anders is like “what I’m supposed to believe the man who kicked me out of bed for being a mage three weeks ago suddenly decided to go out of his way to take me in and not report me, with no conditions attached?” And Fenris is so frustrated and so confused and is like “yes?” And Anders just kinda looks at him steadily for a moment and just goes “ok.”

Fenris has to go to work and when he gets back Anders is gone. He made himself a sandwich before he left and leaves a couple dollars on the counter for it with a note that just says “thx :) “

Except now Fenris Knows that there’s an apostate mage on the streets who’s unreported (and homeless) and possibly dangerous because of him personally

So he asks Varric to help him find him and insists that it’s just because he wants to see if the mage is alright (and maybe he is haunted by the mental image of him unconscious in the gutter and the fingerprint bruises on his neck, and maybe he has started to notice how all the people who try to him about mages are born and bred in Thedas and well fed and, well, bullies) - when he gets a lead Hawke insists on coming and Fenris can’t figure out if it’s to protect the mage from him or him from the mage

But turns out the mage runs a back alley clinic - for other mages, for refugees from Tevinter, for anyone who needs it.

It’s not a home exactly - more of a back room in a garage he gets to use but not sleep in, and the clinic has irregular hours, because it’s whenever Anders is able to get there. But whenever he is there the doors are open 24/7

And on the inside are posters, the walls are wallpapered with them, manifestos and protects and graffiti calling for the rights of mages. Behind Anders on a counter two kids are playing with magic. He’s tending to a pregnant woman from tevinter, speaking to her in Tevene. When they come in he looks up and freezes, and calmly asks his patients to leave. More than one volunteers to stay for his protection but Anders convinced them it’s alright and as soon as they’re out looks at Fenris “this is a place of healing. I don’t know how you found me, but whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Just please leave me alone.” And Fenris frowns and feels Varric and Hawke watching him and is like “I don’t want anything. I just wanted to see whether you were ok.” And Anders spreads his arms wide and is like “ok, I am. Happy?” And Fenris sees the bruises on his wrists and arms in the shape of fingers and he’s speaking before he’s thought it through and he’s like “do you need a place to stay?” And Anders frowns and is like “we’ve been over this I neither need nor want your hospitality held over my head” and Fenris can feel Hawke and Varric watching him still and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this but he goes “reading lessons. I could. Use some help reading in common. Healing is an academic discipline, right? Help me practice my reading and I’ll consider it your rent.” And Anders frowns and is like “I’ll consider it@ (it’s been so long since he had a hot shower) and Fenris realises he’s seeing whether he’ll take no for an answer and is like “ok. You. Know where to find me.”  And they leave and Varric and Hawke are both staring at him like he’s grown a second head and Varric is like “so uh what’re your gonna do with an apostate fugitive? You’re really going to take him in for. Reading lessons?” And Fenris is like “he won’t accept if I don’t name a price.” And Hawke is like “not the most pressing part of that question” and they walk down the alley and away from the clinic and Fenris is like “I know”

So Anders finds Fenris at his store a few weeks later and is looking kind of nervous and waits till it closes and is fiddling with them hem of his shirt and is like “if we’re going to do this I need ground rules” and Fenris wonders again why he’s doing this and goes “name your terms” and Anders is like “we sleep in separate locations” and Fenris is like “obviously” and Anders just Looks at him, “I have my own keys” and Fenris kinda hesitates and Anders lifts his chin and is like “I need to be able to get in and out on my own” and Fenris figures that’s fair and goes on and then Anders goes, “no matter what, you don’t call the MDC. If you get tired of me, I’ll leave. But you don’t call them and you don’t get to hold it over my head or threaten me with it. Because if you do I’m gone and I will set fire to your underwear when I go.”  And he’s kinda joking but he’s kinda serious and Fenris wonders what’s happened before and wonders what it would have been like if someone had found him fresh out of Tevinter and held it over him

fenris' rule is no magic and anders is like ok no magic In The House and Fenris is like Fine

and at first it works - turns out anders is hella smart and grew up in a detention centre and the fact that made him academic irritates fenris and makes him think anders had a Good Time but he doesn't argue it, just watches. and anders is really helping fenris and then the people at the refugee centre ask if fenris can write a course for them and fenris can't and he hasn't brought anders there because tevinter refugees and mages, and also anders is an unregistered mage, but anders just. agrees to write the course

and they've found an awkward peace and bethany and hawke and the others have been befriending anders. fenris has noticed anders staying up late now he has somewhere to sleep working on his manifesto and decides not to stop him but also doesn't know what to do about it because he Can't publish this they'll both get arrested but anyway right now it's the unaddressed unexploded bomb

anders decides to build the course around traditional tevinter texts to make it easier and does his own translations and fenris comes home one night and sees him happily translating and is real Soft for him but then he realises the book is magically floating

he's furious but then anders gets scared and for a secnd they're just, stalemate and then anders is like "ok fuck this" and he challlenges fenris to boil an egg with one hand behind his back and fenris is like "what" and anders is like "i bet you can't" so fenris does it

and he triumphs and anders just watches him and he's like "what was the point" and anders is like "you asking me not to use magic is like making me not use a limb. all the time. and demanding that i never show any feeling at all. do you have any idea what that feels like?" and fenris glares and is like "i was a slave, anders" and anders kinda gets quiet and goes, "i'm asking you, please, just give me  a chance. i'll make cookies. you watch. if you think my magic is so ugly and demonic and horrifying, we'll go back to the way things were. but just give me a chance." and fenris is like. "...fine" so anders does whilst fenris watches and he realises anders is stirring and is like "wouldnt it be easier to use magic" and anders snorts and is like " i like stirring, besides i dont use magic for everything, that's a bad plan in general

and as he bakes, occasionally using magic to lift thing s or adjust temperatures, fenris sees him relax and relax and relax, until he's humming softly under his breath, and fenris realises how stiff and unhappy and awkward he'd been even when he'd thought he was comfortable, and realises how much he's been demanding of anders - and anders presents him with a plate of fresh cookies and his eyes are bright and he's grinning and flushed as if he's been dancing and is like, "well?" and fenris is like. fine. but only when we don't have visitors. and if you ever, ever use it to harm me or anyone i care about, you're gone

and anders kinda shrugs and is like yeah ok i mean i feel like that would apply whether or not i used magic (sees the look on fenris' face) but yes! i get it

so then anders starts using magic! and he sees the way fenris flinches and is careful and after a couple days fenris starts asking questions and anders answers them, explaining to fenris the different forms of magic and skills and schools and how they work and stuff

and at some point in this time anders tentatively suggests treating fenris' tattoos and to fenris' own amazement, he agrees

so now the assholes in the shop yelling about evil mages are seeming. much more annoying to fenris than they had before, and he's starting to see the holes in their arguments. and anders keeps staying up till 3am writing his manifesto and fenris is a little worried and tries to convince him to sleep more. one night fenris gets back from a gig with isabela and hawke to find anders asleep on the table and he hesitantly carries him to the couch and tucks him in and in the morning he makes him breakfast and is like "we should really get a sofabed"

So things continue, Anders really helps Fenris’ chronic pain and they’re. Getting along. Almost friendly. And then the prime minister is killed by the qunari, Meredith declares a state of emergency and stuff gets real scary real fast

Anders’ clinic is more busy than its ever been and Anders just, basically sleeps there

Most of the gang helps out and Fenris hates, really hates being at his shop and thinking about what the hell could be happening at the clinic

After the first wave of attacks on the city and the people who turn up at the clinic, there’s a steady trickle of folk getting attacked - police brutality and extremists, and Anders just yeah. 24/7 there whilst Fenris eats himself alive trying not to worry about him and what will happen if either these thugs find him or worse the MDC

And then extremists do find Anders clinic, and he gets the crap kicked out of him, and when it’s 3am and he still hasn’t heard from him Fenris goes to the clinic and finds Anders and Anders wakes up and is like “we’ve got to stop meeting like this” and Fenris just sort of laughs and sort of cries and holds him close and Anders gets real quiet and then folds into him and there’s just this deep gentle intimacy for a second

A week later Anders wants to go back to the clinic and Fenris just.  Refuses to let him go alone and takes time off work and goes down to the clinic with him whilst he works and keeps an eye on the door

And a week after that, they get home and before they go to bed Anders is like “I need to talk to you about something” and Fenris is like “can it wait?” And Anders looks at him with this tight, exhausted expression (the people he’d treated today had been kids. They’d nearly been beaten to death) and is like “no” and Fenris stops in the door to his room and Anders gives him the manifesto and is like. “I need you to read this. Please. And if...if it moves you at all. I have something I need to ask.”

For a week Fenris doesn’t read it. But then some tevinter mages turn up at Anders clinic, and he just. Can’t keep running away. So he reads it and he takes it seriously and he makes notes and annotates and at the end he finds Anders a fortnight after that request and he’s like. “What would you ask of me?” And Anders says “I need you to help me publish it.” And Fenris stares at him and tries to figure out how the hell this happened. And then he says yes

[carabas]

So I’ve just finished reading the Dragon Age Tevinter Nights anthology, and short reaction: enjoyably hit and miss right up until that final extremely thorough direct hit, thank you Patrick Weekes.

Much, much longer version:

1. I don’t know how reasonable it is to try to extrapolate about what’s going to be in the next game based on a random short story collection, but hey, the novels that came out before DAI were about the mage rebellion, the Orlesian civil war, and eluvians, so.

So things I’m now expecting to see in the next game, aside from the Tevinter-Qunari conflict and Solas of course: Nevarran necromancy, Antivan Crows, Wardens who are struggling with decimated numbers after DAO and DAI (would be the perfect time for Razikale and Lusacan to both wake up at once really), and the Lords of Fortune, a never-before-mentioned Rivaini treasure hunting organization which appeared in I think three different stories here. 

Plus a few stories were very much signalling This Specific New Character Will Be Showing Up Again, whether in the games or elsewhere; I'll be shocked if Lucanis the “Demon,” reluctant heir apparent of the Antivan Crows who just got into a cliffhanger conflict with a Tevinter magister, doesn’t have more to do.

2. THERE IS A MAP, there is a great big fantasy map surrounded by nifty little illustrative details to poke at.

There’s a label reading “White Spire,” not in Val Royeaux, but on a mountain beyond the Arlathan Forest. Is that an error or is there really a White Spire mountain? If not an error, has it always been named that or is that new, possibly a new center for the mages after the war, after the original Spire fell? At no point is either Spire mentioned in this book aside from this map.

Lots of astrological sun and moon patterns prominently featured around the edges. Is that one moon chart depicting moon phases or an eclipse? Is it too conspiracy theory of me to be counting the nine dark moons (or spheres? like in that DA4 idol illustration’s seven slots?) on the dragon’s wing? Probably. Or are those spheres a reference to the second moon that never seems to actually be visible, is that missing moon actually deliberate. 

Most of the astrological charts are fairly straightforwardly showing sun/moon phases but what is the crowned figure in the one on the lower right meant to represent? The Maker? What’s going on with the horizontal lines passing through it/behind it? The two moons beneath it - is that an illustration of the moon in two phases or being separated into two (metaphorical moon in that case, presumably), do those horizontal lines also indicate separation, do I need to move on from the astrological depictions here, definitely.

Love the big horseshoe crab sea monster.

3. Patrick Weekes’s first story in the collection: halla shapeshifting! An elf named Strife who I fully expected to be revealed as an agent of Fen’harel mimicking ancient elven names like Sorrow and Pride, though I was wrong - would it be charming or just annoyingly unsubtle if that became a thing among his agents. An ancient forest guardian with lyrium blades who hunts magic in a way that struck me an awful lot like a forest-themed equivalent of a golem, though I may be wildly off base with that one.

4. Nevarran necromancy story. An odd bit of the chant to highlight for a funeral: “And the Maker, clad in the majesty of the sky, set foot to earth, and at His touch all warring ceased.” I continue to squint suspiciously at overlaps between Maker and elven god imagery. Also, evidently mortalitasi believe that when someone dies, an inhuman spirit is pushed out from the Fade into the physical world, and that’s part of the reason behind their housing spirits in bodies - neat! The existence of Curiosity spirits, also neat!

5. Is Ghilan’nain’s horrible body horror place supposed to be spelled Hormak like in the title and previous canon references, or Hormok like throughout the text here? I know this was just a mistake but maybe I’ll use this to say that in-world there’s multiple ways of transliterating Dwarven.

6. Lukas Kristjanson story #1, the one featuring approximately a million minor Inquisition character cameos and a meditation on Solas’s regrets, introduces a character with the phrase “free mage by special commendation,” and I was briefly thrown by that little signal that we are Not In My Worldstate, that the mages aren’t all free by default - except then the story went on to destroy Solas’s fresco so I wound up quite grateful for that little heads up that this isn’t my worldstate actually.

(Unfortunately I can’t get into this guy’s writing style at all, which is a shame because it’s one of the big Solas stories in the book.)

7. There’s a little plot point in the Wigmaker Job story that demonstrates those elven artifacts Solas had us activate all over Thedas do indeed strengthen the Veil - like, he wasn’t lying to us about what those orbs do, that is how they work, here we see a Crow stab one in order to deactivate it, weaken the Veil and unleash a horde of vengeful demons. Nice confirmation.

8. Genitivi is the Randy Dowager. (Possibly. At least, Philliam wrote a scene in which Genitivi alludes to being the Randy Dowager. I do appreciate an unreliable narrator but after a certain point it does make the lore hard to keep straight.)

9. By the time we got to the story about adventurers stealing an incredibly powerful healing amulet just to donate it to a mysterious contact at a makeshift hospital trying to help people where the Qunari-Tevinter war has spilled over, I knew better than to expect any cameos from DAO/DA2 characters. And with the mention of the squire, I was pretty sure the mysterious contact was going to be Vaea, and it was. Still. Anders would approve. And for a moment I was fantasizing that it would turn out to be him, or connected to him. A new mental setting for him and Hawke post-mage-freedom - makeshift hospitals at the edge of the invasion, secretly sponsored by a certain pair of absurdly overpowered, dungeon-crawling, treasure-hunting fugitives.

Yes, my Dragon Age interpreting is still all about Anders even when he’s not remotely present.

10. You know, I really expected the leaders of the Crows to be a bit more ruthlessly competent than this. Someone is setting up a grand demonstration, recreating infamous historical assassinations carried out by the Crows but now with the leaders of the Crows themselves as the victims, incredibly flashy, incredibly clearly sending a message, and yet not one of the characters trying to figure out whodunit is speculating about the meaning behind that message??? the motive in going to all that trouble??? it’s all, hm, perhaps it’s the qunari invaders. hm, this one was posed with a pearl necklace just like the one in the historical murder it’s recreating, i bet the culprit owns a pearl-fishing business! I know they’re assassins not detectives but at least show the professional courtesy of paying attention to the message in the show your fellow assassin is putting on for you, geez.

Anyway. Interesting Crow details: they talked about neutral ground and territories divided between the Crow households here, does that just apply to Antiva or like, does Arainai have claim to all jobs in Ferelden? 

And the line “Teia's back was bare except for a tattoo marking her as a member of House Cantori” puts Zevran’s tattoos in a slightly different light for me - he’s mentioned that some symbols are sacred to the Crows, and logically it follows that having that symbol tattooed on him would indeed mark him as a Crow to other people in the know, but that his tattoos mark him as belonging to House Arainai is a thing that did not hit me from that.

11. An agent of Fen’harel muttering “Felassan” to activate a rune. In memoriam? Charming. I mean it’s a rune that’s intended to kill an entire city, so possibly the more literal slow arrow is meant, but I’m still charmed.

12. PATRICK WEEKES CLOSING OUT THE BOOK BY JUST DUMPING THE CONTINUING DREAD WOLF HUNT PLOT ON US. 

So much. 

An actual giant wolf in the Fade, I’m so happy for tumblr user corseque. 

A character again raising the possibility that Solas is not an ancient elf but rather a young elf who stumbled onto old magic, a theory I thought debunked by Trespasser but here we are considering it again. 

A minor side note that a lot of Kirkwall’s templars went rogue after the explosion - that’s not relevant to the post-DAI plot really, I’m just noting it for my generally-DA2-focused fanfic purposes. 

The possibility that somniari (presumably) can kill even dwarves who don’t dream in their sleep. Somniari in general or did Solas personally step in here?

A ritual involving the red lyrium idol resulting in the phrase “As if we were the blood and the cavern the body through which it flowed” right before the POV character enters the Fade, which is a rather Titan-esque turn of phrase. 

The Dread Wolf again asserting that all creation is in danger and he’s trying to fix that. A biased POV character recognizing that, huh, funny how those spirits around the Dread Wolf which surely must be demons actually look an awful lot like Justice and Valor. 

And Charter’s notes at the end, so direct, not only spelling out the new details on the idol for us (that the figure represents a crowned figure comforting another) but thoroughly hitting us over the head with Solas’s essential characterization in his own words, as if Weekes is still trying to clear up any possible lingering misinterpretations there. (Prideful, hotheaded, foolish. Doing what he must. Sympathetic to elves. Said that he was sorry.)

And the quiet simplicity of Solas coming to this meeting of spies in person because, pause, “...the Inquisition was involved,” written in such a way that you could read all sorts of things into that pause, whatever the Inquisition and the Inquisitor might mean to him.

The book would have been worth reading for this last story alone, what a note to end on.

[talesfromthefade]

Fenris x Anders (Wings!AU), for @dadrunkwriting​, and @contreparry​

“Fenris,” Anders hedges, worrying his bottom lip. Part of the mage loathes the idea of bringing it up. And having this conversation now, when he’s just given the elf permission to touch and try to clean up his wings a bit, seems more than a little reckless. The healer in him, though, can’t quite push the thought out of his head.

“Yes, mage,” Fenris hums, finding and spinning a chair around and sweeping the dust from it, before gesturing for him to take it. Anders does, sitting backward, and slowly, taking care not to hit anything with them unfolds his wings. Resisting the urge to sneeze as the slight draft the movement creates sweeps up more dust into the air and grains to twinkle in the air where the sun drifting in through the large hole in the roof. It’s so rare for him to have the opportunity, to feel safe to set them free like this, it’s a surprise to see just how big and long they are, and for a moment he forgets what it was he wanted to ask. Fenris, for his part, seems equally transfixed, looking on with something akin to wonder and awe that makes Anders’s heart clench. He clears his throat, clearing with it the confusing swirl of thoughts and feelings that the elf seems to stir up whenever he is around.

“About what you told- well, what you showed me last night,” Anders says, returning to his earlier question and purpose. Fenris’ hands which had just begun to stretch out for his wings halt their progress and hang suspended in the air between them. Fenris had mentioned binding being bad for the ribs, so the elf can’t be entirely unaware that the means he’s using to compress his chest isn’t the healthiest. But perhaps he doesn’t know there are other options available to him? Given what little detail Fenris has offered up about life as a slave in Tevinter, Anders has no idea how long Fenris has been doing this, but he can’t imagine the Master he describes would have been in any way helpful or supportive. “There’s um-” Andraste’s knickerweasels, but this is awkward. Thank the Maker he doesn’t have to make any sort of eye contact while he’s getting this out, or Anders might just lose his nerve. Taking a breath, the mage does his best to slide into a more objective state of mind, to speak to him as though this were anyone else, one of his patients. “There are certain garments that will do the work of those bandages you had on yesterday without so much pressure on your ribs. Breathes a bit better too, as I understand it. I won’t pretend I’m an expert or anything, but I could ask around for you. Discretely,” he adds quickly. “See if there are any tailors around Kirkwall that know how to make them. Seems like there must be someone.”

“Fenris,” Anders ventures softly when the elf fails to make any sort of reply. The mage turns a little on the chair he’s straddling, but Fenris is just standing there, hands still frozen outstretched for his wings, wide green eyes staring at him.

“I- I knew there had to be… others,” the elf manages finally, finally letting his hands fall back to his sides for a moment. “But I thought-” he shakes his head. “Usually they are the sort you see at the Rose.”

“Women? In the business of corsets and clothing to, ahem, emphasize the assets,” Anders supplies with an amused quirk of a brow. Fenris nods. “Well, as I said, I can’t pretend to be an expert, but yes, you aren’t the first or only person the Maker put in the wrong body.” The elf’s breath catches for a moment, and Anders can’t do this over his shoulder anymore, spinning around on the chair to face him.

“You really believe that?”

“Of course, don’t you? Fenris, have you never talked with anyone else about this,” Anders asks carefully. Fenris frowns, fingers twitching nervously at his side before he curls them into fists to still them, before he finally shakes his head. “Oh, the way she talks, I thought maybe you and Isabela were…”

“No,” Fenris replies, shaking his head again. “She flirts. Doubtless, she would like to. But we are just friends.”

“Right. Well, you know, I daresay she’s a bit more…worldly than most of the rest of our group-” Fenris snorts.

“That’s a tactful way of putting it.” Anders shrugs.

“I was more referring to culturally with her having traveled to every corner of Thedas with a port, but yes, I suppose that too. Anyway, she might not be the worst person to talk to, was my point.”

“You’re not doing so bad.”

“If you say so,” Anders laughs, shaking his head softly.

“I do,” Fenris nods. “Now, we were going to do something about your wings,” the elf reminds him, gesturing back towards the chair. Anders nods, accepting albeit abrupt shift in the conversation. Fenris is done talking about it, done being vulnerable for now. Anders will take his turn, returning to straddle the chair and shaking out his wings once more.

“You know, for what it’s worth,” Anders offers quietly before he can stop himself, settling his chin on the back of the chair and stretching his wings back out for the elf to examine, “I’m pretty sure she’d still be interested.”

“You are surprisingly invested in this Mage, is there a wager on it? Varric? Hawke?”

“No,” Anders laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you at all. Just-” but suddenly Anders can’t seem to voice exactly what he means by it. That Fenris doesn’t have to be alone? Unless that’s what he wants.

“Just,” Fenris prompts curiously.

“Hawke wasn’t wrong,” Anders replies, plowing forward before he can lose his nerve. “You’re a very handsome elf.” Especially when you do that, the Healer thinks before he can stop himself as Fenris’ cheeks and ears flame slightly at the compliment. “The right people will see that. See you.”

“Thank you,” Fenris chokes out finally. Anders nods, letting his chin fall back to the chair once more.

The healer’s not entirely sure what he expected when he agreed to let Fenris help put his wings back together again, but this definitely wasn’t one of the scenarios Anders had imagined. The elf touch is so light, so cautious he’s not even aware he’s begun before he suddenly stumbles across a particular spot, touches in just such a way Anders twists to duck out from under it with a peel of laughter.

“Oh,” Fenris smiles, looking relieved as Anders gets himself back under control once more, clearly momentarily worried he may have done something wrong or hurt him when he first pulled away. “You’re ticklish,” the elf observes, his smile sliding into something closer to a smirk.

“If you tell anyone,” Anders threatens, but it’s halfhearted at best, and Fenris seems to know better than to be cowed by it.

“Who would I tell Mage? Besides, how would you have me explain how I know that?”

“You know, we could be friendly with each other.”

“Is that not what we are doing now,” Fenris asks curiously, and Anders fights a shiver as the elf’s fingers trail carefully through his primaries looking for places they snag, feathers out of place.

“Around the rest of them.” Fenris hums thoughtfully, gently guiding a vein back into line with the others.

“And deprive them of their entertainment,” the elf teases. Then, softer, with something of an apology in it as he carefully knocks one or two smaller, loose feathers and down from the mess Anders has made of them, “I- I’m trying, mage,” he admits.

“I know,” Anders acknowledges quietly. Because he does. They’re not about to agree on everything, or even most things, and bickering is more or less the basis of their relationship with each other, but their squabbles have become noticeably more civil, respectful of each other’s traumas than they once were. “Me too.”

They fall quiet for a while, only the rustle of wings and slide of patient and gentle fingers sliding over feathers filling the space between them. But it’s a comfortable silence now.  It is, as Fenris had suggested when he’d first brought up the possibility of this, rather intimate. Karl was the only other person who knew about his wings, and even then, trapped in the Circle as they were, he never had the opportunity to touch or to care for them like this. And it is care. So unexpected and so much Anders finds himself tearing up despite his best efforts. Fenris can’t possibly miss it, as close as he is standing to him, but the elf doesn’t make any comment, not even when Anders shifts a little to retrieve his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his nose.

He’s finished. Fenris has left no stone unturned, no vein free from his explorative and attentive fingers, no feather out of place. Regardless of whether or not they can actually give him flight, they should do a better job of keeping the mage warm, perhaps even waterproof now if they work anything like the book on birds he borrowed from Hawke’s library knew what it was talking about. They look better. Anders does too, more relaxed for his efforts, and perhaps the relief of his brief bout of tears. Still, Fenris is reluctant to pull away just yet. When will he get another chance like this? He’s done his best, but there’s certainly no guarantee Anders will look for a repeat performance, or that he will seek the elf out when he does.

Slowly, Fenris reaches out once more for Anders’s scapulars, then slides a little higher taking the muscles of the healer’s shoulders between his thumb and fingers and digging in. Anders protests, something about it being unnecessary, and Fenris not needing to do this come to an abrupt stop, swallowed by a grateful moan when he finds and begins to work out a particularly stubborn knot.

It’s been years. The last time he’d done this had been for another mage. Danarius. This isn’t anything like that, though, the elf reminds himself, pushing out the unpleasant memories that threaten to creep in. Anders didn’t ask, the mage, this mage, didn’t demand or expect this from him. Fenris chose this. Offered it freely, and Anders expresses his gratitude and appreciation just as openly as he becomes steadily more boneless and held up by the chair he occupies.

“I don’t know how I’m going to be able to get my feet to work now,” Anders jokes softly when Fenris steps back, admiring his handiwork.

“Don’t,” Fenris replies decisively watching as Anders carefully tucks his wings back in again. And suddenly the mage is wrapped and scooped up in strong arms and being carried over and deposited onto the bed. “Go back to bed, mage. Your Clinic will keep a few hours more.”

“But-” Anders protests weakly because certainly, he is tired, but the refugees depend upon him, and this is not the guest bed he used last night. The pillows and bedding smell distinctly of the handsome elf who’s tucking him into it. And when did he start noticing what Fenris smells like?

“Resist the urge to argue with me for once, Mage,” Fenris replies softly with a smile. “You look exhausted.”

“Alright,” he agrees, eyes already half-closed with sleep, which Fenris answers with a happy hum. Anders thinks there may have been the fleeting press of something, maybe lips on his brow, but is sure when he wakes a few hours later, far better rested, he probably just dreamed it.

[ranawaytothedas]

A Maybe - Day 2 Hand Holding

A/N: It may be like... a day late but my life is kinda hectic and I am shocked I even managed to get this done. Not what I had originally planned but I liked this better as it actually is close to something I had already ready planned to write for Early Maeve/Cullen stuff so here we go. Unbetaed as most of my prompts are - just so you are aware :D Enjoy Day 2 of @scharoux ‘s 14DALovers prompts which you can find HERE

There was a certain amount of ritual to Maeve’s life. Everything had its place in her room, her clothes were all either black, dark blue or grey. There was never a bright color on her. Certainly nothing in a pastel either.  She wore her hair the same each day. Up in a tightly braided knot, hiding the fact if down it went well past her waist. She never liked to show too much skin, like her sister did in her youth. Her clothes were always tightly fitting and showed off her curves, but she tried, for the most part, to not show too much of her to the world. It was a sign of her being a far more guarded person than she once was. 

So when Maeve made the choice to take her hair down from the tight braid, letting her long chestnut brown locks down that evening it must have been what started the shift in Maeve. Perhaps it was the dusty blue dress that Madame Vivane had made for her by her personal seamstress. A gift to cheer the depressed young woman up, Maeve expected but Vivane said she needed something that fit the role she now found herself it. Maeve stood over her bed, her arms crossed in front of her naked chest. Her pale skin smattered with scars, old and new. Deep blue tattoos covered her back, the vain attempts that she and Raven had made to tame her chaotic mana. She was not a woman who had worn many fine dresses in her life. 

Most of her life she had made every attempt to go unnoticed, “That is a dress that makes people notice you..” Maeve mumbled as she reached down and ran her fingertips lightly over the fine silver embroidery that covers the pale blue fabric. “Tis a dress they would wear to court... “ Maeve mumbled, her voice wavered as her mind was pulled back to a time where she was out of her element once before. Long ago. She shook her head to try and push the memories away but for a moment she could have sworn she felt his hand on the back of her neck. Maeve shuddered as she pushed away a hand that wasn’t there and reached down for the dress. 

There was no reason that Maeve would admit for wearing it, but she had to wear it that night. The reason she would not admit that it was almost the time that Cullen would wander down to the docks each night Maeve was in Haven and wait for her. They would only talk, but it was the highlight of each of Maeve’s day. There were many things Maeve was actively trying to avoid. Her sister, the responsibility of being the Herald, having to learn magic and admit to the world she was a mage. The handsome former templar, was nowhere near that list.

She pulled the dress on over her head and pulled her long hair out as she laced the bodice up with her nimble hands. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and let out a slightly startled gasp. The woman looking back at her was hardly the woman she was used to seeing. It was strange how much letting her hair down and wearing a light color softened her. “Now, I know why Varric calls me Princess…” Maeve muttered as she smoothed the dress and slipped on the matching pair of flats that Vivane was sure to of provide. 

When she was ready to leave, Maeve paused at the door. Her hand hoover over it as her hand shook. ‘What if he does not think the dress is fine, what if he does not feel the same, or worse what if he does…’ That little voice of doubt in the back of her mind called out. Shaking her head before smoothing her hair, Maeve muttered, “No, it’s just a dress… a dress means nothing.” as she reached forward and opened the door.

The walk down to the docks from her cabin took only a few moments, but they were each more agonizing than the last. As she stepped on to the docks. Maeve watched as Cullen slowly turned around hearing her footsteps. Gone was the armor he wore during the day, only the dark brown jerkin he whore under it and a pair of black breeches and his normal boots. As soon as Maeve saw his face, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. His whole posture became more rigid the moment he saw. “I knew this was a bad idea…” Maeve grumbled as she turned to leave. 

Cullen, when he wanted to be, was quite quick and close the gap between them. He reached out and took ahold of her wrist lightly, stopping her. “Don’t go.” he pleaded softly as Maeve slowly turned back around. “You… look lovely.” His eyes were fixed on her’s as his hand slipped away from her wrist. “I just, I um… never have seen you with your hair down.” He noted with a small nervous laugh. 

“There is a lot of it.” Maeve quipped back, her eyes falling to the boards of the dock out of nervousness. 

“That there certainly is, not that I don’t.. I uh…” Cullen brought his hand to his brow and rubbed it before letting his hand fall away looking apologetically at Maeve.. “I just put my foot in my mouth didn’t I?” 

“Just a little bit,” Maeve laughed, her cheeks flushing pink. Her hands smoothed the dress before she gestured to it, “The dress…” 

“Is that the one Madame Vivane made all the fuss over?” Cullen asked raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. Maeve nodded slowly. Cullen smirked. “I see why…” His small attempt at flirting didn’t go unnoticed by Maeve, nor did the fact his eyes were lingering on the plunging neckline of the dress. He caught himself letting his gaze linger in places it shouldn’t and Maeve nearly laughed when she saw his cheeks flush as he finally looked upon her face. 

“It is a lovely dress,” Maeve admitted softly as she looked down at it, running her fingers over the fine embroidery. “I stole this necklace a few years for the horrible, crass and cruel madame in Antiva. It would have gone rather well with this dress I think.” Maeve mused as her hand went to her neck, playing with the thin gold chain around it. “It was thick with diamonds and sapphires. The jewels were set in moonstone. Not silver nor gold like so many others she had. When I put it on, the one time I did… It felt like when Keran used to sit on my chest wake me it was that heavy.”  A genuine smile glanced across Maeve’s lips and in the pale moonlight, it was if her golden eyes sparkled. Cullen let out a content sigh seeing the rare genuine smile from her and noted how beautiful she looked. The smile faded with a dismissive laugh, “I wish I had not fenced it, though the gold I got for that necklaces severed a better purpose.” 

Cullen knew Maeve’s reputation as a skilled thief and chuckled darkly. “And what, was that purpose? More daggers?” He jested as he crossed his arms in front of her chest.

Her long, thick hair moved over her shoulder as Maeve shook her head. “No. I actually rarely kept the gold I earned from fencing jewels and I only stole from people who could afford it and deserved it. Because those things so often go hand in hand.” Maeve’s voice was even and so matter of fact as she spoke. “I used the gold to free an elven girl who had been bought and brought there from Tevinter by the woman I stole the necklace from. She was none the wiser I bought the girl with the gold from the necklace she had hired Zevran to track down… but he knew my plan the whole time.” Maeve added quietly almost like she did not want anyone to hear that the great Sparrow used the gold she stole for good. 

“You mean…” Cullen started still trying to grasp what Maeve had done. “You…” He stammered and Maeve laughed. 

“I freed a woman who should have never been in chains. Because people do not belong in chains. They are not property to be bought and sold as people more powerful see fit.” Maeve began emphatically. “You lived in Kirkwall, I may not have had some fancy Chantry education but I know that City’s history. It’s a reputation. Surely you know that Slavery is still alive and well.” Maeve stated bitterly. “They pray on the elves because they have no place to call their own, it is horrible…”

“No, I wasn’t saying anything like that….I am… just uh… putting my foot in my mouth again.” Cullen stammered. “I just was taken aback that you did such a selfless act, with so much risk.” 

“Do you think so little of me?” Maeve questioned softly not sure where Cullen was going with his statement. 

Cullen sighed, bringing his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing. “I just always expected because you were a thief, the way Leliana spoke…” 

“Leliana’s little birds may know a great many things but I was once one of those little birds. She forgets I know how to feed misinformation to the right sources as well her.” Maeve smirked, tilting her head to the side. Cullen started shaking his head as he smirked at her. “I have a reputation to uphold, the Sparrow is feared…” She was attempting to be serious but there was amusement in her voice. “The most skilled thief of the Dragon Age they called me in Orlais..” There was a proud smirk playing on her lips. 

Cullen couldn’t help but chuckle at her pride. “You sound vastly more proud of being called the best thief of the age than you ever have been being called Herald of Andraste.” 

“Because the thief bit is real!” Maeve laughed. “That was my hard work and practice. Not some twist of fate or cruel trick of destiny.” Their eyes met as Maeve sighed. “I am skilled at things that make me ‘a bad person’ but I am not a bad person.” Maeve tried to explain. “I have seen bad people all my life, I come from a long line of really terrible people…” There was both humor and truth in her words. She shifted uncomfortably as Cullen’s gaze intensified as she spoke. “I know how the world views mages, I know how the world views my sister and my mother… so I took fate into my own hands and styled myself a thief. Still looked down upon in this world but better than ‘Witch of the Wilds’ or ‘Daughter of Flemeth’. I did not have to be me, I could this whole new person who no one really knew. That scared little girl could finally be laid to rest. I was happier as The Sparrow then I have ever been as Maeve.” Cullen’s hand reached out for Maeve and but pulled back at first. “I promised myself that I would not steal from people who could not endure the loss. I would not hard people who were constantly harmed. I was going to do good, or try to. To be different from Flemeth… from Morrigan..” 

“You are.” His hand reached out and grasped hers. Their fingers interlacing as he looked deep into Maeve’s eyes and repeated. “You are different from them.” For the first time that night, there was nothing but confidence in Cullen’s statement. “Every time you leave Haven you face certain danger. I have seen the reports from the Hinterlands. I know you often go far out of your way just to help people.” Maeve tried to turn away but Cullen too her other hand, which caused Maeve to look back at him. “I know about the refugees at the crossroads, the elven couple. The Tranquil that came back with you from Redcliffe… Maeve.. You did not have to do any of that.” 

“I did,” Maeve muttered softly. “They needed help and no one else would help them.” 

“That is why you are different than your sister and mother. Would they have helped those people?” Maeve shook her head silently answering Cullen’s question. “See, I wish you could see yourself the way the world sees you… the way I see you.” Maeve started to shake her head and want to pull away and Cullen squeezed her hands. “Maeve, I know what mages mad with too much power can do. I have lived through it, barely. You fight against using the immense power so hard it just..”

Maeve swallowed hard as she looked away from Cullen “Explodes all over the place in a wave of chaos and destruction…” Maeve scowled. 

“Well, some..” Cullen admitted. The few times that Maeve had accidentally caused something to happen, buildings to shake or lighting to strike from the sky with not a cloud to be seen. It was always when she was upset and she let her tight control over her powers slip. Cullen often wondered, from what he knew of mages if it would not be better if she were just to use that power. He had never dared to ask her but the look of disgust at herself hurt him so deeply that he wanted to help her. Even in some small way. “What about what Solas suggested? Actually learning to use your magic.” Cullen never thought those words would ever come from his lips, but it seemed like the only logical answer. 

Maeve scoffed at even the idea, “I have tried, Cullen… I told you about..” 

“Tattoos that your friend found in a book is not the years of hard study that is needed, have you ever even put in a real effort to learn? I understand the fear..” Cullen replied a tone of frustration growing in his voice. “I am talking about study, real study Maeve. You have Madame Vivane, who is highly skilled mage, who was trained properly…” Maeve’s face paled and she pulled her hands away. 

“You would send me to Circle… wouldn’t you?” Maeve asked softly, her voice filled with sadness and fear. “You know what they would do to me?” Maeve asked and now it was Cullen who was looking away. His avoidance frustrated her and her sharper tone as she continued to reflect that. “They would make me Tranquil… you know this, Cullen. Do not act like you do not know what happens to mages like me in the Circle. The ones that are not like others, the ones that have power that the Chantry should fear.” There was venom in her words and her mouth narrowed as she scowled. “I would rather die than be like that…”  Maeve pulled her hands away from his and scowled. 

A mournful sigh escaped Cullen’s lips, he truly did not know what he would do. At times Maeve did unnerve him, even frighten him. Other times, like now. When she was the vulnerable young woman standing before him wide-eyed and afraid, knowing all he knew of her past and her fear. He also saw that she wasn’t a monster, she was just someone who was trying to change their path. “I do not know what I would do… you are not like..” Cullen stopped mid-sentence and sighed. He reached back out for her hands. “No, I would not let you get sent to a circle because yes… you are right, that is what they would do to you. More than likely.” Cullen decided honesty was going to be the best course. “I know what happens during the rite, I… can not… will not let that happen to you.” 

“Truly?” Maeve asked softly.

With a slow nod, Cullen answered, “Truly..” He hesitated for a moment but pull Maeve closer, his thumb running over the back of her left hand that bore the mark. Lifting up slightly. “I care about you, I see the way you look at Alistair, I am not blind but I listen to me, please… I am not innocent, I try to hide the less than savory deeds of my past, but you hide your good. I was a Templar and you are an Apostate… who really should learn how to use her magic. “ Cullen was getting flustered and Maeve could feel her cheeks beginning to flush as he stammered on. “This would never be easy between us, I know this but I can not keep you from my mind for more than a moment. I haven’t felt like this in… a very long time.” He sighed and chewed on his bottom lip nervously. Maeve thought his anxiety over confessing his feeling to her was actually, at its core quite sweet. “I am not asking for anything more than a chance, a maybe this could be more than late-night talks. I did not think you were at all interested until I saw you in that dress. Where you just trying it on?” Cullen paused and they looked into each other’s eyes, leaning in as if he was going to kiss her he stopped, asking “Or did you wear it for me?” 

Maeve’s cheeks were bright red as he mentions the dress. “I did wear it for you…” Maeve whispered and for the briefest of moment Maeve thought he was going to kiss her but she pulled back before he had a chance. “I have to think about this, this is not a no, by any means but you were a Templar… I am… me…” There was sadness in Maeve’s voice but she knew that she had to think long and hard about what the consequences of getting into bed with an ex-Templar could mean. No one she considered family would approve and it would close any door on what hopes she had to be with Alistair. Not that she believe she had much hope at all in that department. 

“Is this a maybe?” Cullen asked softly. He wanted just that glimmer of hope, a possibility of something of a silver lining to all this chaos. Maeve nodded slowly and Cullen smiled. “I can work with a maybe..” A genuine smile played on his lips as he brought her hand finally to his lips and placed a tender, light kiss on her fingertips. 

Maeve felt something shift in the air that night as she stood by the lake with Cullen and it was the start of her whole world began to change. 

[pigeontheoneandonly]

Continuing my Dragon Age / Mass Effect crossover series.  Part 4 here.  Also on AO3. It’s coming in at the very last minute, but this is also my (belated) contribution to Kaidan Week 2019′s AU Theme Day.  (@spectrekaidanalenko)

Part 5: The High Seas

Nathaly folded her arms over the rail and closed her eyes, filling her nostrils with the fresh sea breeze.  Maker, but she’d missed this.  Ferelden would always be home, but she’d said her goodbyes, and had no longing left for an extended stay.  For some people home was more of a necessary idea than a real place.

Or maybe her concept of home had shifted over the years, from a place to people.  Garrus and Ash and Liara— all closer than her blood kin.  The rest of the company, currently on march through Nevarra, a kind of extended family. Crotchety old-timers in place of nagging aunts, and dozens of cousins more her age.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

She opened her eyes, smiling as she saw Ash standing beside her, arms crossed.  Armor packed away for the meantime.  Her strength was evident even in a plain linen tunic and breeches, brawny arms and a broad back, glossy brown hair tied a practical knot, but she also looked easier, less intimidating than when armored. Relaxed.  

Nathaly turned back to the water.  “Very nice.”

Ash lingered on the gray swells of the Waking Sea.  “The way you take to the water, you’d think you were  a fish, not a shepherd.”

Her laugh carried. A few of the nearest sailors paused in their duties, startled by the sound, though Nathaly took no notice. “My mother had to drag me out of the swimming hole by my ear in the summers.  Kaidan and I practically lived there from the time we could walk.”

The sidelong glance she got in return had more than a little subtext, and a hint of trepidation.  “How is that going?”

“Pardon?” She wiped a loose lock of hair off her face, whipped free by the wind.

She jerked her chin aft, where Kaidan sat chatting with Liara.  “With him.”

Nathaly snorted. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘with him’.”

“You built up this moment for ten years.  That’s a lot of anticipation.”  She cleared her throat.  “And I can’t help but notice he was pretty quiet on the way up to the coast.”

Nathaly folded her hands.  Looking off to the horizon.  “You remember your first kill?”

“Trust you to be that crass.”  Ash made a sound of mild offense, joining her at the rail.  “It wasn’t pretty.  Not one you want to hear about, or I want to tell.”

“But you remember it, is my point.  You always will.”  She shrugged, hunching down.  “My first was older than me.  Everyone was older than me, then.  I threw up hours later, when that battle was over.”

“Everyone does,” Ash said.

“Everyone,” she agreed.  Thinking about Kaidan, briefly, his head in those bushes.  “But the moment, that moment, when he fell and it was my pike sticking in him, was the worst moment of my life.  All around me people were still fighting.  Attacking, dying.  Screaming. And I told myself that if I didn’t pick up that pike and keep going, if I died here because I couldn’t, then Kaidan would stay in that tower forever.  It’s a kind of slavery, you know.”

Ash snorted, but refrained from comment.  They’d had this argument before.  And Nathaly continued, unperturbed, for the same reason.  “And I picked it up.  I turned into this.”

“You turned into a person who could waltz into a Circle of Magi and set one free with hardly any notice at all.”  Ash turned to her.  “I cannot emphasize how baffled they were.  They questioned that poor guard for hours, wondering how Kaidan snuck by. They looked at the window and determined there was no way up or down.”

Her turn to tch. “I’m supposed to be proud that they’re idiots?”

“They’re not. Keeping mages is what they do.” Her stare turned harder, and more curious.  “What’s this about?”

She straightened, flexed her fingers around the railing.  Looked down at the deck.  Wondering whether to speak, and finally just blurted it out.  “I turned into someone he doesn’t like.”

That just annoyed her.  “He doesn’t get to judge.  He took your help readily enough.”

Nathaly tendered her an exasperated look.  “Ash. Come on.”

“This is your problem, and you’re turning it into his.”  She turned around and folded her arms, looking at her pointedly.  “I’ve known you… four years now?  Five?”

“Something like that.”  She turned back to the water, grumpy.

“You’ve never been with anybody.”

“That’s not even a little true.”

“Sure it is.” Then, over her protests, “You spend a night.  Two, if you’re in one place long enough.  You never leave your name.  You never leave anything.  I think you may be the only one in the entire company that’s never had any kind of shield-mate thing—”

“I don’t want to shit where I eat, so there’s something wrong with me?”

“You don’t shit anywhere, is my point.”  Ash pressed onward as Nathaly rolled her eyes.  “You keep that particular shelf in your heart scrupulously empty.  Because whether or not you want to admit it, you’ve been harboring this bizarre fantasy about a person you last saw when you were eight years old, and how it was going to be when you finally met him again.”

“It’s not like that.”  And she meant it.  Ash’s accusation was absurd.  “I didn’t have any expectations beyond getting Kaidan out of that abyssal shithole.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “But you hoped.”

Nathaly had hoped. But not the way Ash meant.  “He was my closest friend, going back to before I have memories.  Our mothers used to quiet us as infants by sticking us in the same cradle.”

“So you’ve said, many times.”

“I just wanted that back.”  And a little bit of the forlorn way she’d felt since Kaidan looked at her with such revulsion as they fled Crestwood returned.  “But we both changed.  Too much, maybe.  The Chantry stole it.”

“You’re so bitter.”

“They can all get fucked.  From the Divine on down.”

“That’s one way to cure what ails them,” Ash said, mildly.

Nathaly held her cross look a moment longer, and then broke, chuckling despite herself.  “I don’t know, Ash.”

“Talk to him.” She uncrossed her arms and pushed away from the rail.  “You won’t get anywhere brooding.  And you haven’t given him an opportunity to understand.  He’s spent most of his life in a place where every hour was spoken for, and they didn’t even have funerals.  Anyone who died just disappeared.  It was sanitary, but not particularly educational.”

“You’re probably right.”  She glanced, again, at where he sat with Liara, their conversation still as animated as before.

Some of her ambivalence must have shown, because Ash cleared her throat.  “You know, I have three sisters in Lydes.  Two married.  One… well, wild, our mother would say.  Abby.  She’s like you, you’d enjoy her.”

She quirked eyebrow.  “Bitter?”

“Appreciative of swords, and tops you have to tie her into.”  Ash grinned at her bark of laughter.  “More Orlesian dueling than real work.  Still.  What I wanted to say is this.  Nobody understood, when I took my vows.  We’re devout, of course, most families are.  But giving up your life to the Chantry?  Something else entirely.”

Nathaly tilted her head.  “How’d you make them understand?”

“The first time I got a chance to visit, I’d been gone over two years.  And it was strange at first.  Awkward beyond belief.  And then something changed.”  

“What?”

Her smile broadened.  She touched her shoulder.  “They remembered I was their sister.  I hadn’t changed.  You haven’t, either, not in the ways that matter.  But it takes time.”

“Yeah.” Then, as Ash began to walk away, “And thanks.”

She gave her a nod, and disappeared back below decks.  Probably looking for lunch.

Nathaly took a breath, and steeled herself.  Regardless of what Kaidan thought of her, they had a bigger problem.  

He looked up as she sauntered over.  She tried not to take his guarded expression personally, but it twisted like a knife every time.  “We’ve got another week before we reach Ostwick.”

Liara sat back. The wind hadn’t bothered her hair at all, protected as it was in its thick braids.  “What then?  Do you still intend to head north?”

“Rivain is our best bet.  No other place in the world is friendlier to mages.”

“Excepting Tevinter,” she pointed out.

Nathaly waved that off.  “Tevinter cares about rich human mages.  Does that describe our bunch?”

“Not yet,” Kaidan said, overly bright.  It took Liara’s gentle laughter to make her realize he was telling a joke.  

She blushed, but soldiered on.  “It’s going to be a long trip.  We can’t count on that mess back in Crestwood being our only fight.  And no offense, but…”

“I’m a bit useless at combat?” he suggested, dryly.  

“In a nutshell.” She nodded at Liara.  “She can teach you something about real combat magic later, not the kind they teach that assumes you have an army to defend, away from all the prying eyes aboard ship.  But she also knows that a staff is a very sturdy, very heavy length of wood that can be quite useful for hitting people.  I hoped she might be willing to demonstrate.”

“Of course—” Liara began, but Kaidan interrupted her.  

“I don’t want to learn a quarterstaff,” he said.  

Nathaly blinked. “Then what?”

“The way you used that sword is pretty impressive.”

“You… want to learn sword fighting?”  She couldn’t have been more startled if he said he wanted to fly to the moons.

“It’s a little less conspicuous.  And I said I wanted to trade down to a focus that’s more discreet.”

Liara gestured towards her.  “You couldn’t ask for a better teacher.  It seems a shame not to take advantage.”

Kaidan looked at her.  “I’m already beholden, but I could stand to go a little deeper into debt.”

Nathaly was certain her face was burning.  She had a brown complexion, darkened further by the sun, and hoped it didn’t show.  “When do you want to start?”

He glanced at Liara.  “How about now?”

The deck was clear enough.  She swallowed.  “Alright. Let me just… go find a pair of blades.”

He cocked his head.  “What’s wrong with yours?”

Liara chuckled. “Are you joking?  Hers might hesitate when it hit your bones, but for certain nothing else about you will stop it.”  Then, at his confused expression, “It’s enchanted.  To help cut through armor.”

“I guess that explains why it cut mail like a hot knife through butter.”

“A necessary expense,” Nathaly said, as though it wasn’t worth more than all the rest of her worldly goods put together and then some.  “Templars are armored head to toe.  I can’t rely on gaps all the time.”

And then she regretted saying it, as his face clouded, overcast by shadows of their fight with the three templars on the road.  Probably recalling the one she stabbed through the neck.  That particular opening, where the helm ended, was just so exploitable.  Nathaly was frankly shocked the templar order had never corrected it.

But then, templars generally did not see a lot of non-magical action, respected as they were throughout Thedas.

Whatever images floated through his mind, Kaidan only asked, “Why not put the enchantment on your dagger?  Seemed like you attacked with that more.”

She blinked. “That’s the smartest question anyone’s ever asked me about it.  Maybe you’re a swordsman after all.”

He smiled. “I think you’ve got an answer, though.”

“Three reasons.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “First, the dagger takes a lot more abuse.  I’ve broken them clean off before and it’s too expensive to replace.  Sometimes I have to leave it behind, because I threw it, or wedged it into something, and so on.  And finally, when I do manage a hit with the long blade, it counts for a lot more.  A person can walk away from a shallow stab wound.”

Ash joined them. “And don’t get her started about the virtues of armor— or lack thereof.  Here.”  She handed Nathaly a pair of wooden tie rods, used to hold smaller sails in place, and about the length of a long sword.  “I couldn’t help but overhear about this little experiment.”

Nathaly swung one, experimentally.  “Sure, this’ll work.”

She handed the other to Kaidan, who turned it over, a bit uncertain now that they were about to begin.  Sure enough, he tried to delay.  “What about armor?  If you can afford an enchanted sword, plate surely can’t be a stretch.”

Her nose wrinkled. “There are only two weapons that worry me.”

“Here we go,” Ash muttered.  Liara swatted at her.

“A longbow, and a mace.”  Ignoring Ash entirely.  “Maces do not care about plate.  They are specifically designed to negate its advantages, which leaves only avoidance. And the best way to do that is to maintain full range of movement.”

But Ash could not keep silent.  “You get full range in plate.”

“Almost. Not good enough.  And the weight slows you down.”

“Properly fitted, you don’t even notice the weight.”

“But you do,” Nathaly insisted.  It was an old argument between them.  “It adds its weight to yours.  Makes it harder to start moving, or stop, or change direction.”

Kaidan interrupted the nascent argument.  Not knowing them well enough to understand its good nature.  “And the longbow?”

Liara answered. “It’s arrow-catcher armor.  Lots of layers.  Leather’s tough, and she’s got a tight-woven silk lining under it.”

“Shit,” Ash said. “Everyone who can afford it wears silk underneath.”

He looked Nathaly up and down.  “You’ve thought all this through.”

“Your mind is your most important combat asset.”  She raised her stick.  “Let’s see what we have to work with, here.”

Hefting his own stick, he frowned.  “Feels light. Not that I know what a sword weighs.”

“It’s too early to care about that.”  She moved several steps, circling around him.  “The most important factors in a swordfight are timing and distance. Control those, and you’ll win every time.”

Kaidan turned in place, following her.  “What am I supposed to do?”

“Try to hit me.” She grinned.  “Show me what bad habits I need to beat out of you.”

“Is that an order?”  Smirking slightly.

“A fact,” she said, and lunged towards him.  Just to get things started.

Nathaly wasn’t trying, not really.  She only wanted him to react.  And he did. Scuttling backwards and tripping over his own feet.

She closed easily, smacking his arm with the rod.  “See. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Yet,” said Ash, who was clearly enjoying this all too much.  

A hint of irritation flickered.  “I should thump you, too.  A little reminder.”

She held up her hands in surrender.  “I’m good.”

“So I can get on with this?”  She raised her eyebrows.

Ash crossed her arms, put out at having her fun spoiled, but held her silence.  Shepard returned her full attention to Kaidan, who swallowed.  She offered a little guidance.  “Try again. This time, close with me instead of retreating.”

Kaidan raised the rod half-heartedly.  Skittish. She sighed, and threw her stick to Ash, who caught it easily, and then spread her arms wide.  “Fine.  We’ll try it like this.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

Ash barked a laugh.  Her hands clamped over her mouth.  Even Liara looked a amused.  Primly, she said, “If you manage to so much as tap her, I’ll be very impressed.”

“I’m getting bored,” Nathaly said.

That did the trick.  Kaidan swung the rod at her like a baton.  She stepped smartly out of the way.  “Slow.  Try a shorter swish.”

“Feels more powerful this way.”

“Sure, but it’s all wasted because you can see it coming three leagues awa—”

He took two quick steps forward and flicked the rod.  She leaned backwards reflexively, feeling it whoosh past, and grinned.  “Better.”

“I feel so stupid doing this.”

“It’ll feel that way.  And then one day, it won’t.  It’ll just be natural.”  She nodded at him.  “Again.”

Kaidan hefted the rod.  “Timing and distance.”

“Yep.”

He came forward, half-skipping in what he surely thought was an attempt to move lightly, flicking the rod back and forth.  She retreated, half her concentration on how he was driving her towards the rail ringing the deck.  And noticing he wasn’t paying it any mind at all.  All of his focus on trying to land any kind of blow.

So he was completely unprepared as she slowed.  Nathaly saw the hope brimming in his eyes.  Unsure at first, more assured with every small delay in her steps.  No idea she was luring him in.

His eyes told her exactly when his confidence reached a tipping point, a small fraction before the firm way he planted his foot confirmed it.  She was already spinning out of his path when he committed to the lunge.

And kept stumbling forward when his rod found only empty air.  He had so much momentum, in fact, that he carried on several paces and half-pitched over the rail.

She grabbed at his shirt.  Underneath it, he was shaking from the close call.  “Whoa.  Hey.”

Kaidan took a big breath.  Then whirled, coming in with an overhand strike.  She only just managed to dodge.  A burst of laughter escaping her, the maneuver beyond clumsy but so completely unexpected and enthusiastic that she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

And he kept going. Sufficiently embarrassed or motivated by her trick to forget all his earlier hesitation.  All but running at her.  But she was tired of being chased.  It was a good moment to teach him distance went in more than one direction.

So the next time he swung, she waited for it to complete, and stepped close in a blink. Blocking any further movement of his arm.  As expected he immediately tried to retreat, but she kept pace, until he stopped in some confusion.

“You’re dead,” she explained.  His eyebrows knit together.  So she demonstrated.  Stretched out one arm to touch the stick.  “I would hold your sword here, with my own long blade.”

Then she took her other hand and moved it to his side, just under the ribs.  “You’re not armored, and no mage I ever met wanted to be, so I’d slide my dagger here.  It would be over before you knew it had happened.”

She raised her head.  Found her face only inches from his.  He was still a little shorter, he always had been, and his eyes were the same warm brown. Her breath hitched.  Just once.

“That sounds like your style,” he said, quietly.  “It didn’t occur to me until a few weeks later, but you waited for just the right moment to come to Kinloch Hold.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”  She swallowed.  “I wanted to give it my best shot.”

“And then you closed the distance.”

Her mouth quirked into a half-smile.  “Exactly.”

He held her gaze a moment longer.  Then he stepped back and lifted the rod.  “Let’s try again.  I’ll get it this time.”

[askdragonagecompanions]

How would the da:I companies react to the Inquisitor haveing anxiety and depression issues

Dorian: As much as Dorian likes to ignore and hide it he struggles with his own demons. When you grow up having to hide who you really are, and then have your parents try to alter your mind it leaves you with some issues that don’t just disappear. Now looking at the Inquisitor of course they’re going to have anxiety. The whole fate of Thedas were on their shoulder and they didn’t even ask for this. He considers the Inquisitor one of his best friends so when he sees them sitting on the balcony looking like someone just gave them the worst news he sits down next to them. They’re rubbing the palm of their hand nervously. “You know, back in tevinter I had this charm. It was just a smooth piece of wood on some leather string. You’d drop some scented oil, usually a soothing scent, on it and rub it in and it helped me a little at least.” He starts, just looking out at the stars as well. He’ll let them talk to him about it all, but he’s not going to push. He assures them that even though it seems impossible they’ll make it through. Maker they’ve been physically in the fade twice now which was previously deemed impossible. Of course they can make it through this, that doesn’t make it easy or any less stressful, but he makes them know they’re not alone. “Remember, you’ve got the best mage on your side. If you ever need to talk or just want to drink come find me.” He’ll stay if they want him too, but sometimes a bit of time alone was just as good. 

Vivienne: She’s seen it happen all too much. People in charge usually got some sort of anxiety. For some it was just during stressful times, for others it was something that stuck with them. Vivienne cared about the Inquisitor of course, but she knew the Inquisitor needed to look strong. They were the person that everyone was looking up to. Everyone was watching the Inquisitor and if they showed any sign of weakness the nobles would be on them like a pack of wolves. She can see the Inquisitor starting to crumble. If it’s an anxiety attack or just the stress of it all it doesn’t matter. With a gentle hand on the Inquisitor’s back she leads them back to their quarters. She makes some tea and helps them through the panic attack. “Now, I understand that this job is more than stressful, but we can’t have you breaking down in front of the nobles dear. They’ll eat you alive.” She starts and when the Inquisitor slumps their shoulders she just tilts their chin up so that they’re looking her in the eyes, “What I mean by that is the next time you feel one starting, just tap my shoulder. I’ll get you out of there and I’ll help you get through it alright? It’s understandably that you feel like this. I’m here for you dear, we all are.”

Solas: It took Solas longer than he’d like to admit to figure out what the Inquisitor was going through. In his defense he was trying to keep them at a distance. He didn’t want to get attached. He needed to keep his plan in mind and making friends wasn’t really going to help with that. The Inquisitor was determined though and they were quite the surprise. He didn’t expect anyone to feel the same way he did about spirits.He starts to enjoy their journeys in the fade while they sleep. Though one night they just seem so tired and exhausted from the day. He knows what to do and takes them to a peaceful spot. A quiet forest glade with the sun shining down. “You know Inquisitor, you should take a break. I know, there is important work to do but if you work yourself to the bone everyday there just won’t be anything left. You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but just know you’re not alone.”

Varric: Pointing out the obvious never really seems to help. He’s seen this before, he goes through it. He gets them on their way to the Tavern and offers to drink with them for the night. He makes sure they don’t drink too much and just gently coaxes them to talk to him. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I get what you’re going through. This is… a shit situation and everyone’s looking up to you. If you ever need someone to talk to or a drinking buddy, or just someone i’m here for ya alright? You always help everyone else, so let someone help you for once.”

Sera: She gets it. The nervous stuff yeah. Okay so maybe she’s not the best to help out with it. She gets too loud and they seem uncomfortable. She really wants to help though, so maybe pranks. Sometimes it works and cheers them up a bit and they get drinks after. Other times they seem too jittery for it. That’s when she takes them to the roof and brings cookies (she doesn’t make them, not after the first time.) Sometimes Quizzy talks about what’s bugging them, other times they just need quiet and Sera’s fine with that. She just wants to make sure her friend is okay. 

Cole: He can feel the unrest in their soul. It’s not something he can make just go away, he’s learned that. He still wants to help though. He can feel their pain, Worrying wondering. I’m not good enough. It’s not going to work. I want to save them all but I just can’t. They all look to me for guidance but I don’t know what to do. I’m going to fail… I can’t. I can’t fail… He steps in. If the Inquisitor is somewhere loud he takes them to their room. He wraps them in a blanket and gets some warm tea. “You don’t need to know everything. We cannot save everyone, but that isn’t your fault.” When it’s anxiety he brings calming scents and if they’ve romanced someone he makes sure their partner comes to check on them. If they’re not he stays with them and helps them calm down. At first he didn’t let the inquisitor remember him helping but that only seemed to make them more sad. He does enjoy seeing the Inquisitor smile and thank him the next day. It makes him feel good. He can’t take away all of the pain but he can help. 

Iron Bull: Look everyone has their own problems especially in this line of work. He’s seen it happen in the Qun too often, hell it happened to him. The thing is people don’t get reeducated here. Still it’s not good to keep shit like that inside. It’s like a poison and it’s going to only make things worse. If they’re not romanced he offers to pop their cork a bit and help them relieve some stress no strings attached. If they accept he doesn’t think anything of it. If they don’t he understands as well. Either way he makes sure they know they can talk to him about all of this and that he wants to help. If the Inquisitor starts having a panic attack in a public place he helps them get somewhere quiet and makes them focus on their breathing and soft things instead of their anxiety. Killing and fighting a war takes a toll on someone’s mind. He knows. 

Cassandra: She knows that fighting takes a toll on warriors, but she’s never been good with emotions. She is awkward at best. She knows she’s not the Inquisitor’s first choice to go to when they’re having a panic attack or just feeling very low, but when they do come to her she tries her best. She tries to stay gentle and usually ends up just reading Sword and Shields to them while they calm down. She knows it’s not much but they assure her it helps a lot. 

Blackwall: Blackwall’s seen it first hand, he’s experienced it. It’s… not something easy. It eats at you constantly with everything you do. When he first notices the Inquisitor’s anxiety he makes a sort of worry stone but with polished wood. He doesn’t make it some big gift exchange. He just sort of slips it to them and tells them it should help. And it does for minor anxiety. when they come to him having a panic attack or he finds them having one he asks if it’s okay to touch them. If they say yes he takes them to the barn and has them sit down and has them tell him their name and why their here until it helps them calm down. Then he gets some water and has them drink. He can see how tired they are, the look of exhaustion in their eyes. “You’ve got the toughest job in the world Inquisitor. Like I said when I joined, I want to help. You don’t have to tell me anything alright? But, you don’t have to do everything alone. It’s alright to lean against someone when you’re not doin so hot.”

[plumrabbit]

Red lyrium, Titans, the Evanuris, Mythal and Solas - theories and sporadic thoughts

A few of us have been chatting (aka tinfoiling) on Discord about the possible past events involving the Evanuris, red lyrium, titans and etc. and came up with a little post about how we think a number of these factors tie in together.

We’ll start off with things that we (meaning the fandom) are quite sure about:

1. Lyrium is blood of titans and because of this is alive (the Descent DLC)

2. Red lyrium is tainted blood that has the blight in the sense of contagious corruption (“Well, Shit”–DAI, Varric’s companion quest)

3. There are statues of Mythal in the deep roads (Trespasser DLC)

4. The blight (in the sense of an event with an archdemon/darkspawn) allegedly first came about because magisters, including the Architect and Corypheus, tried to usurp the golden city

5. The idol looks a bit like Mythal/Flemeth (somewhat subjective but very compelling)

Of course there are many more, but these are just the ones that pertain to the theory we’ve been discussing.

Now there are things that haven’t necessarily been confirmed or are unknown:

1. How lyrium became tainted into red lyrium

2. Who created the red lyrium idol (knowledge that it was found in the primeval Thaig in a Dwarven ruin notwithstanding)

3. What exactly is in the Golden/Black city

4. Who exactly the Forgotten Ones are (we only know the story from the side of the Evanuris/what was passed down)

There have also been some awesome fan theories:

1. The Red Lyrium Idol looks like Solas holding Flemeth at the end of the main quests of DAI - there have been a lot of super interesting interpretations and descriptions of this phenomenon (does this mean that a new cycle of some sort is repeating?)

2. Evanuris orbs are Titan hearts (u/nouvlesse)

3. The idol was fashioned in Mythal’s image as a result of her role in something to do with lyrium

4. Does the current state of Tevinter/Magisters/rebel mages mirror what occurred with the Evanuris and Arlathan in the past (a new cycle repeating? Bioware seems to love playing with the idea of history repeating itself…just a theory)?

We know that the Evanuris were extremely powerful mages, and it’s been suggested (confirmed?) that they hunted Titans and were the first to mine and make use of lyrium, and potentially the Titans’ hearts as their orbs (u/nouvlesse on reddit). Perhaps they even used the lyrium and orbs to control the “lesser” Elves, enslaving them (I believe it was u/nouvlesse that made a post about this, also Fenris’ vallaslin being lyrium-infused?).

Here’s where we started tinfoiling about the chronological events leading up to the creation of the Veil, followed by DA events. What if Mythal somehow used the lyrium to create some kind of people/race? She is known as the “mother” after all, and there are statues of her in the Deep Roads as we see in Trespasser. And what if these new people, being synthetically created and whatnot, were somewhat mindless? And what if the Evanuris used this new expendable population as their army against the Forgotten Ones? And what if the Titans didn’t like what was being done with their blood, and used magic to twist their “offspring” into something corrupted to fight back (this idea was somewhat spurred by Game of Thrones - Children of the Forest/Night King, also “they made bodies out of the earth, and the earth was afraid…”)? And what if this new, corrupted race was the original darkspawn? And what if Mythal was the one to say “you’ve gone too far”, and the reason the Evanuris killed her was to stop her from destroying something they believed would grant them unending, substantial power? Did the darkspawn eventually get sealed away somehow, and the Tevinter magisters were indeed the ones that released them?

Now the question is, how does Solas fit into all this? We know that the Evanuris had slaves, marked by their vallaslin. It’s been suggested multiple times that Solas was originally a slave (“he left a mark when he burned her off his face”, also the fact that he absolutely despises enslavement in any form). Perhaps he was recruited into the upper ranks after some show of his magic ability (shapeshifter [wolf] maybe? This idea was in a recent Twitter post that Patrick replied to), and intelligence. The relationship between Mythal and Solas has had a lot of speculation behind it, and if he did indeed have her vallaslin, it’s also another point of interest as to when he figured out how to burn it off. It’s possible that they had a mentor-student relationship, it’s possible they had unrequited feelings for each other. A number of people have postulated the romantic route because of the parallelisms of Mythal with Andraste and Flemeth, that being having jealous, abusive husbands, as well as a love affair with some kind of rebel (the way they speak at the end of the main quest suggests platonic, though, yet in an uncomfortable manner, at least IMO [power dynamic?]). Either way, they were likely in cahoots when it came to freeing the Elven slaves and leading the rebellion against what they believed was corruption in the ranks of the highest powers of Arlathan. Perhaps Mythal was a double agent (I made a post about how ravens and wolves have a symbiotic relationship IRL and ravens are the “eyes” of wolves so that sort of ties into this idea).

Moving on to present DA issues…

Clearly something horrible is going to awaken in a sense (Titans? The Maker? The Forgotten Ones?), perhaps when Solas tears down the Veil, perhaps it’s been inevitable ever since the formation of the Veil and the disruption of magic (I want to say Sandal said something that alludes to this). It seems as though the biggest chunk of information we’re missing right now is the “why” of Solas’ plans - why is he so obsessed? What is the fundamental core of his motivations? Do we have enough knowledge to answer this?

Other things to think about:

1. DA4 “The Dread Wolf Rises” may be a double meaning (Bioware loves that shit): 1. Solas’ rise to magical power in terms of undergoing whatever he has planned, but, 2. perhaps we will also see flashbacks of how exactly he rose to power as a rebel in the first place (somewhat related: it would be hilarious if the DA4 protagonist was a Fen’Harel double agent, that is, actually working for the Inquisition or whatever cause, since one of the themes of DA is corruption in the ranks of a large organization. Irony, ha).

2. What did the world look like when spirits co-existed in the physical plane? Are there any races/peoples that have been associated/merged with spirits? The Avvar provide a good window into this life history/possibility but it’s still a foggy concept.

3. The throne in the Fade (speculated to be in the Black City by @canticle-of-apotheosis) is reminiscent of “The Devil” tarot card (can represent entrapment and obsession with power [upright], but also freedom and the cusp of personal breakthroughs [inverted]. It can also show a strong connection between two people. Interpret that how you will).

4. In general, the amount of Norse mythology in DA lore.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 39 - Parting

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

--

They stayed out on the cliff-side for what seemed like hours, wrapped up in each other, revelling in the space away from the constraints of duty that had kept them apart. They sat in the long grass and watched Cuno chase after crickets as the sun curved across the sky; Rosslyn showed him how to weave a flower crown, and though his was uneven and already falling to bits by the time it was finished, she blushed and pulled her lip between her teeth when he fitted it gently into her hair.  

“That means something, you know,” she told him as she did the same with hers. 

“What?”  

The answer was a lopsided smirk pressed delicately against his own mouth, while a feathersoft hand had traced the line of his jaw. Alistair’s stomach coiled and shot heat down to his toes as he leaned in, and steadied them both with a hand on her waist, lips parted to deepen the kiss.  

Then her stomach rumbled.  

“Of all the days to not bring a picnic,” he murmured as he let her go.  

She traced her fingers down the line of his neck, still barely an inch away. “I don’t want to go back, not yet.”  

“They’ll come looking for us if we don’t,” he reminded her, with a quick darted kiss against the corner of her mouth. “Knowing our guard-captains, they’d probably find us, too. That was meant to be a joke,” he added when she frowned and turned away.  

“Not your best,” she teased. “But you’re probably right.”  

“Then what is it?”  

Sighing, she drew her knees up to her chin and fiddled with the end of her sleeve. “We haven’t said…” she tried. “This… us…”  

“You don’t want to tell anyone,” Alistair guessed. Something unpleasant lurched in his gut.

She glanced at him sharply, watching his jaw clench. “It’s not like that. I want –” The words fell away, lost to frustration as she shook her head. “There’s just so much going on, with the war and everything else – our lives are open for everyone to see, prince and teyrna and whatever else they choose to call us. I want… Void take it, I want something that can’t be touched by any of that, something that’s just… us. Ours. I’m… not explaining it very well.”  

She turned away too soon to see the light rekindle in Alistair’s eyes, preoccupied instead with drawing her hair over her shoulder like a veil to hide her mortification, the idea that she had stepped too far and now could not go back.  

“I know what you mean,” came the reassurance as he caught her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I understand. Everything in my life has always been about politics and whether or not I was more useful to keep around or send away, but you – politics has interfered long enough with how I feel about you.”  

“Alistair…”  

“I don’t know where this is going to go – I hope…” He paused then, dropped his gaze to follow the path of his fingers as he traced the bones of her hand. “If it’s what you want, I’d like to court you. Properly. But… not because you’re the Teyrna of Highever, and I’m a prince – for whatever that’s even worth – but because you’re you, and I – I want to be with you. Hang what everyone else thinks. It’s not their business, and… they don’t need to know. I just thought I’d tell you, in case – you know, in case you maybe wanted something like that too… And now I’m rambling, aren’t I?”  

She didn’t answer immediately – she couldn’t, entranced as she was by the glide of Alistair’s skin over her own. His speech burned in her ears, and beyond that the sincerity in his voice echoing every desperate hope carried in the deep, painful places of her heart, which rose now like spring from the roots of a great tree. The size of it lacked expression, though she tried to push through the hitch in her breath to stammer out something, anything to put aside the worry her silence had brought to his eyes.  

“Yup. Rambling. I knew it.”  

She collapsed against his shoulder with a huffed laugh, a self-deprecating sound of defeat tucked against the crook of his neck so she could muffle her uncertainty. A cautious hand settled on her back, but when he tried to pull his hand away, she caught his fingers and laced them with hers.  

“Nobody’s ever just outright asked to court me,” she explained. “I wasn’t expecting it. And…”  

“And…?”  

There are things I haven’t told you. I don’t want this to come to nothing. I’m not –

“And it might be a bit late to keep it from everybody. I’m not sure there’s a person on Innse Gaillean who doesn’t know.”    

He squeezed her hand. “Well you can be rather obvious, you know, the way you stare.”  

“Me?” she replied, pulling back to glare indignation at him. “And I suppose you don’t stare at all?”  

“Oh no, dear lady,” he answered. “I own how much I stare at you, but then, can you blame me? You are rather lovely.” The low, confidential hum of his voice caught her breath and she had to turn into his shoulder again to hide her grin.  

“I think I could get used to being courted by you.”  

Above her, he froze, and then with a sigh that ruffled past her ear, he shifted and turned, craning his neck to see her better. “Really?”  

She moved just far enough to brush a grinning kiss against his pulse. “Really.”  

--  

The week after that passed too slowly, for both of them. The euphoria of their shared confession was abruptly swept away as they folded back into the patterns of regular life, livened by the preparations to return to the mainland and the first news of battle joined between the Clayne and the marauding Tevinter ships. Besides, with so many eyes on them there was little time for private moments. Tabris disappeared, given berth on Lord Misyluinan’s ship for her own chance at vengeance, while Isabela grumbled about all the concurrent fortunes she could be making were she not stuck waiting for word from the king.  

That word came nine days after Alistair had retrieved the dragon bone, when Arl Eamon stepped onto the docks. The old man greeted them with a beneficent smile and a hearty clap on the shoulder, until he caught sight of Rosslyn’s glare and added proper deference with a bow. Before he could move on to clasp the Storm Giant’s arm, however, Connor pushed through the crowd, full of excitement.  

“Father! Look! Magus Breca taught me how to do it.”  

Eamon’s eyes shot wide at the curling lick of flame balanced like a pet on his son’s palm. His lips peeled back from his teeth as if he’d bitten into something sour, and when he glanced to Rosslyn and Alistair, their faces slack with shock, whatever he might have said floundered as ruddy colour flushed his face.

“Isn’t it good, Father?” Connor pressed. “It’s meant to take ages to learn but I did it in only days!”  

Eamon bent down, his hand heavy on his son’s shoulder. “What did we discuss about keeping your… abilities out of sight? What would your mother think of such a display?”  

“But…” the boy frowned. “Magus Breca said –”  

“We will speak of this later.”  

The incident was not mentioned again. Eamon, eager to re-establish himself, kept Alistair close company for long hours over the following two days, to the point where Brantis, too well-mannered for complaining, redoubled his efforts to appear indispensable and all but tied himself to Rosslyn’s shadow overseeing their preparations to leave. If part of his motive was to keep the two of them apart, he was tactful enough not to mention it, but it meant that between one thing and another, Rosslyn had no private chance to talk to Alistair until their last night in the broch, when the noise of the leaving feast drowned out all conversation not immediately hollered into a partner’s ear.

“You managed to persuade him to give you a moment of peace, then?” she asked as she shared a plate of mutton pastries. She eyed the servers for unwanted attention, wary of protocol again with her departure for the mainland only hours away. The arl, carefully out if earshot, sat four seats away on the Storm Giant’s other side, swapping war tales with subtle, increasing degrees of escalation.  

“If you can call it peace,” Alistair replied. “Considering.”  

His fingers drummed against the rim of his goblet, the only betrayal of his agitation at being so close and unable to hold her hand. She noticed the movement and made a show of reaching across him for a bowl of roasted vegetables, brushing her arm past his shoulder, while beneath the table her knee pressed even closer next to his.  

“Subtle as an anchor on the heid,” Eoin grumbled on her other side as Alistair leaned back and braced a hand against her waist. “Yair lucky they’re all I’ thair cups.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied loftily.  

But Alistair’s hand fell from her back. In the morning, they would have to go their separate ways, she back south to the war and the king, and he onwards to Orzammar to forestall any treaty the dwarves might make with Loghain. With all the scrutiny from those around them, there had been no time to discuss the change, and with so little time left now before the morning tide, the fear was stalking closer that they might have to part back into danger without anything more than a formal goodbye.  

“Aye, o’ course. Dinnae mind me.”  

A runner stepped up to the dais and bent to whisper in Alistair’s ear, distracting Rosslyn from her retort.  

“What was that about?” she asked as the man padded back into the swirl of the crowd.  

Alistair winked. “You’ll see.” He stood and turned towards the Storm Giant, his shoulders thrown back in the way Brantis had shown him was best for grand, formal announcements. “My Lord Fearchar, the thing we discussed is now, uh… ready. My Lady Lileas, If I might be permitted to interrupt the proceedings?”

For a long moment, the fearsome Mac Eanraig matriarch held him in her pale gaze, her head tilted with an impartial curiosity that collapsed into a smile as she glanced between the young prince and her granddaughter. She nodded.

“Thank you, my lady.”  

“What is the meaning of this?” Eamon sputtered, rising as Alistair stepped over the bench. “Your Highness, this is most irregular –”  

“Ha! Ye picked yer timing all right!” the Storm Giant boomed over him. “You there! Clear a space for the prince, he willnae be able te move in all this mess. An’ all the rest o’ you, settle! Ye’ll want te watch this, milord.”

An anticipatory murmur accompanied the bustle of the servers as platters were cleared to make room for whatever it was Alistair had planned. He didn’t move immediately to the central dais, striding instead to one of the side doors, where Wade stood just inside, a long lacquered box held in his arms with the care of a newborn. When alistair undid the clasps and lifted the lid, Rosslyn glanced curiously to the Storm Giant, frowning when the only response was a catlike smirk.  

“Your Ladyship, will you join me please?”  

She rose at the call, flustered, but didn’t otherwise move. “Your Highness?”  

“I have something for you,” he explained. “Something that deserves a little bit of ceremony, just in case.”  

Aware of all the eyes on them, she bit down on her retort and smoothed her expression into the calm mask she had been taught to wear since childhood, even if she couldn’t quite help the suspicious wrinkle of her brows. The expression only made Alistair grin all the wider, though only she was close enough to see his underlying nervousness, and the way his gaze softened when she stepped close.

He cleared his throat. “Teyrna Rosslyn, it is time your service and your inspiration in this war was recognised. Your loyalty to the crown is unsurpassed, your bravery unrivalled.” He paused, and the silence hung in the space around them.

“Your Highness, I haven’t done anything,” she replied with a note of caution in her voice, throwing an uneasy glance to the Storm Giant. “Only my duty.”

“Oh… you mean it wasn’t you who waded out across the mouth of the Swallow and pulled me from certain death?” he teased. “You weren’t the one who got me away from the field at Lothering, and denied your own vengeance at West Roth so the army could be saved? That’s going to make things a bit awkward.”  

“Your Highness –”  

“Rosslyn. Let me do this.”  

She blinked at the earnest softness in his voice, caught his steady gaze and held it as she smiled her defeat. “I’m not entirely sure how I’d stop you at this point.”  

“That’s the spirit. Master Wade?”  

The smith approached, his face split in a beaming smile beneath his moustache, and offered up the box in his arms. His fingers unhooked the clasps in deft movements, and with a great amount of ceremony, he creaked the lid open.  

Her breath stilled.  

“I thought it was time the army’s Commander in Chief had her own sword,” Alistair explained. “Brantis told me it’s custom for the king to reward the crown’s vassals, but I’m sure HM won’t mind just this once if I steal his moment. Do you… like it?”  

Nested in a bed of black silk, the sword gleamed, sheathed in a scabbard of blue leather embossed with an intricate pattern of laurel leaves that twined along its entire length. The hilt continued the motif, with a crossguard of engraved aurum and a pommel that twisted into the shape of a raptor’s claw gripped around a runestone. It was almost too beautiful to spoil by touching.  

“Alistair – that is, Your Highness – this is…”

“Told you she’d like it.”  

Wade preened. “I do hope you’re pleased with it, Your Ladyship.” He hung on the awe in her expression. “It’s my finest work, made exact to His Highness’ specifications, and sharp as sharp can be. The materials – oh, more than I ever dreamed of! Very receptive to what I was trying to accomplish, and it’s given me so much to think about!”  

“Well, lass?” the Storm Giant called from his place. “After all that it’d be rude not te try it. Ye have leave te draw steel in my hall.”  

With a last questioning look at Wade and a heaved breath to steady her nerves, Rosslyn curled her fingers under the sword and lifted it from the box. When she gripped the hilt and drew it, the blade sang. It was thin, delicately balanced, with a slight reminiscent of the fang of some great beast, and edges that seemed to gather light as she swept it through the air. Oily blues and golds flashed over the surface and sank into the runes etched into the blood-groove. She had never seen such a property in a metal blade, had only read about it in stories.  

“The dragon bone,” she realised, turning to Alistair with wide eyes.

“It turns out nobody really expected me to bring one back,” he told her lightly. “Lord Fearchar was at a loss for what to do with it, and I offered a suggestion. Truthfully, it’s more his gift than mine.”  

“You give yourself too little credit, Your Highness,” Lileas said. “And either my granddaughter is speechless, or she has forgotten her manners.”  

Rosslyn started. The sword was still in her hand, at rest like a natural extension of her arm, and parting with it, even just to put it away, left her feeling strangely anxious. She wanted to test it; it wanted to be used.  

“A blade like this must have a name,” she said.  

Wade nodded. “Indeed, Your Ladyship. I call it Talon. Made from a dragon claw for the Falcon of Highever – such things require a touch of the poetic, even Herren agrees.”  

“As do I,” she replied graciously. “Talon it will be. You should be very proud of your work, Serah.”  

“So yair happy wi’ it, then?” the Storm Giant asked.

She nodded. “It’s a royal gift. Thank you, Gamba – and Your Highness…” she added, turning to Alistair, aware once again of the scrutiny of the entire broch, the expectation placed upon them all to act with ceremony. Sheathing the sword to buy herself time, she held it out to him, perfectly balanced.

“Your Highness, I will not forget this kindness, nor what it means. You gave me this sword, and now I give it back to you in service – my loyalty to Ferelden, and to the crown that serves it.”  

He came forward and took the sword from her hands, so that their fingers brushed on the hilt. Seeing her gaze flick down to his mouth, he smiled, the meaning clear between them. I want to kiss you, too.

“A gift gladly received,” he said in a clear voice, and laid it back in the box before turning towards one of the servers with his best commanding voice. “Make sure this is placed among Her Ladyship’s things.”

The server bowed and left, towing a rather uncertain pause in his wake as the broch recovered from the impromptu formality of the presentation and remembered there was still half a feast to be had. With all eyes still on them, Rosslyn and Alistair kept a careful distance from each other as they returned to their seats. Lileas briefly pressed her granddaughter’s hand before returning to her duties as hostess, and just like that, the moment passed, the watched feeling left them, and they found a moment to breathe in each other’s company.

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he asked, once the platters were cleared and the singers had taken over the floor. “There was meant to be a proper ceremony, but since we’re leaving tomorrow…”

She nudged him with her elbow. “At least now I know where you were every time you snuck off every time I tried to find you this past week. How did Wade react to all the badgering?”

“Not well,” he admitted. Despite his better judgement, he reached for her hand under the table.

“In seriousness, thank you for the sword. I’m not sure you know how much it means.”

“I wish we were alone, so you could tell me.”

“I wish ye were alone, so I wouldnae have tae witness it,” Eoin interrupted.

Rosslyn scowled at him. “Follow me,” she whispered to Alistair. “But not too close.”

Before he could respond, she retreated from his grasp, waking Cuno from his place under the table so she could take him outside. Alistair watched her bid goodnight to her grandparents with manners as smooth as silk, his mind already racing ahead to the moment where he might make his own excuses and join her, and talk to her, and feel proper comfort for the first time since that afternoon on the cliffs. He almost yielded when she threw him a glance at the door, but Eamon’s gaze was on him, warning him against the impulse. He forced himself to wait. One of the singers plucked on her harp, the broch quieted to hear, and after that his departure would have been too conspicuous until the song finished.

In the end, he made it out after only one performance, having fidgeted the entire way through at the worry that he was taking too long, that Rosslyn wouldn’t wait. Eoin took pity on him and made a show of being too drunk to stand on his own, and with that cover they slipped out to a chorus of good natured laughter.

“Away and find her afore someone comes looking,” the Reaper’s captain grunted as soon as they were out of sight.

“Thank you.”

A hand landed pincerlike on Alistair’s arm. “I did this because ye make her happy, and the lass needs that after everything. Hurt her, and I’ll hoist ye up the lanyard by yer own entrails.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” he replied. “It looks like there’ll be a queue.”

Eoin smirked. “Not half bad for a royal bastard. Get on,” he huffed. “Yer lady’s awaiting.”

Rosslyn wasn’t hard to find. She stood in the shadow of the broch, hiding from the light of the two moons full overhead in a sky still rimed with dusk, where only the brightest point of Judex was shining. Cuno snuffled about somewhere in the darkness, and coughed a warning when he heard Alistair approach. He announced himself, and the stiff line of her shoulders relaxed.

“I was beginning to worry,” she chuckled as she stepped close. His arms slid around her waist as she cupped his cheek to kiss him, a chaste, relieved press of her lips that sent a wash of calm all the way down to his toes. When they parted he pulled her close, winding his hands into her hair as if that alone might hold off the dread of leaving in the morning.

“You will write to me, won’t you?” she asked, muffled against his shoulder.

He brushed a kiss against her hair. “I have the first letter already copied out. I know it by heart, if you want to hear it?”  

She twisted in his arms, intrigued. “Go on.”  

Grinning, he trailed his fingers down her arms and lifted her hands in courtly fashion between them. “Dear Rosslyn…” he began.

She frowned. “Yes?”

“I miss you. Fondest regards, Alistair.”

“I… Wait, that’s it?”

“What else were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” she retorted, fighting to keep her own smile under control. “Something… more. Replying to that would be a waste of a messenger.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “So demanding. Alright then. Ahem. Dear Rosslyn, I miss you very, very much.” His voice softened and she leaned closer, folding her arms against his chest. How long would it be before he saw her again? “I still don’t know why Cailan thought I’d be any help in these negotiations, but the sooner they’re over, the sooner I get to see you again. Yours, Alistair.” The last was breathed against her mouth, the words a low hum that made her breath catch. But she giggled and dodged out of reach when he tried to kiss her.

“Oh, and you can do better, hm?” he teased.  

She cast him a sly look as she pulled away. “Dear Alistair, today Cailan bet me five sovereigns that I couldn’t fight a bear single-handed. Well, you know I can’t bear to pass up a challenge, and the coffers have been rattling for months. You’ll only fret if I give you the details, but since I’m writing, you can rest assured that I won the bet. Thinking of you, Rosslyn.”  

“That’s not funny.” He pouted. “It’s not funny.”  

“Then why are you smiling?”  

“Because, dear lady,” he said as he once more closed the space between them, “I’m about to kiss you, and I’m fond of kissing you.”  

“Are you now?” she hummed, leaning up to meet him.

“Mmhm…”

He didn’t want to leave, or to hide, or to lose the thrill of being pressed so close. Fingers raked across his scalp, a warm waist supple under his hands, and when he ventured forward with a flick of the tongue, Rosslyn opened to him with a gasp that lit his nerves on fire. He wanted to learn how to have her make that noise again.

“I wish you were going with me,” he murmured when they finally parted for breath.

“So do I. My father said Orzammar is like nothing humans have ever built.” She turned her gaze away. “But then there would be nobody left to stop Loghain and Baudrillard both tearing Ferelden apart.”  

“If anyone can deal with them, it’s you.” He sighed. “Come on, its late.”

Hand in hand, they ambled in the direction of the guesthouse, leaning on each other while Cuno returned from his investigations to trot ahead like an honour guard. The light inside the common room had dimmed, the banked fire now no more than spitting embers, the whale-oil lamps extinguished to preserve fuel. A rafter above their heads creaked as the building settled, but no other sound broke the stifling air.  

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” Alistair asked. They were already at his door.  

Rosslyn’s hand settled over his heart as she turned for a farewell. “Of course.”  

Hesitant, she traced the line of his collar, unable to quite step out of reach, and unwilling to lose the softness of his fingertips on her skin. With her resolve to leave crumbling away, she rocked forward so her forehead leaned against his cheek.  

“It’s hard to believe we aren’t going to see each other after tomorrow.”  

“Only for a little while.” He caught her chin and offered her a smile too brittle to work. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to miss you any less.”

She kissed him. “I’ll miss you as well, especially when I need a sparring partner.”

“Ah, so that’s the real reason you keep me around!”

“The truth comes out,” she teased.

He poked her in the ribs. “You nobles – all the same.”

“We can’t be all bad if you enjoy kissing me so much,” she pointed out.

“Huh. True. Well how about one more, then – for luck?”

Rosslyn’s smile faded, her breath tight in her chest as the phrase stirred her memory – that last morning in Highever, resentment at being left behind, her parents uncaring who saw their affection as they stood together under the shadow of war.

“is everything alright?”

“The last time I heard those words, my family’s luck turned sour.” She offered a weak smile. “I should let you get some rest.”  

“Of course.”

The fire cracked. Voices carried from outside as the broch started to empty, the songs finished. Sighing, Rosslyn retreated towards the stairs, her fingers linked with Alistair’s until the connection stretched too far and was lost.

“Goodnight,” he murmured as she disappeared through her door.  

Without her, the silence echoed, a snapped cobweb drifting, the empty space a cavern with all the warmth sucked away. With a sigh, he turned to his own room. Moonlight painted a fat stripe across the clothes Marten had laid out for him to wear in the morning, but it was only another reminder of the impending bleakness of his near-future.

The door to the guesthouse opened.

“Ah, there you are, my boy,” Eamon slurred, with a hand braced against the wall to keep himself from wobbling.

“My lord,” Alistair replied. “I was about to go to bed.”

The old man waved him away. “Of course, of course. Perhaps I might have a word first?”

“Uh…”

“Splendid. Perhaps in there – it would be better not to be overheard.” He tramped past the fire and led the way into Alistair’s room, where he spoke the command to light the glowstone on Alistair’s desk. Alistair followed warily, aware of all the times in the past when the arl’s desire to talk turned into requests, or attempts to send his fosterling away.  

But that had been then, when Alistair was still just a servant’s bastard, not the Prince of Ferelden.

“My lord, whatever this is, it’s late,” Alistair tried. “We have an early start in the morning.”  

“We do indeed,” Eamon answered. “I wanted to say I’m proud of all you’ve accomplished here, that’s all – no need to fret. You are coming into your own, my boy.”

Deflated by the unexpected praise, Alistair sank onto his bed. Before he had worked out a proper response, however, his sort-of uncle was already continuing.  

“Of course, it’s about time. Now that Anora has revealed her true loyalties in leaving Gwaren to be with her father, it is more important than ever to show a united line. The gift-giving this evening was very fortuitous to that end, in fact. Couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“I don’t understand.”

Eamon clasped his hands behind his back, tilting a knowing look over his shoulder. “His Majesty is fond of Anora, but her latest action condemns their connection utterly.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Alistair snapped. He was too tired, and trusted the itch in his mind that told him the conversation had a point that he wasn’t going to like.    

“Sometimes I forget how unskilled you are in politics.” The response came with a chuckle. “My boy, Anora’s position cannot be supported. She is entirely her father’s creature, and no matter the outcome, His Majesty knows he must distance himself from her. He plans to divorce her in favour of someone better suited.”  

A stone dropped in Alistair’s gut. “Who?”  

“Her Ladyship, of course. Your official show of favour today has paved the first step to making her queen.”  

A chill stole over Alistair’s skin. Somehow, he managed to stumble through the rest of the conversation, his ears ringing and his fingers numb, until Eamon, mistaking his horror for mere fatigue, clapped him on the shoulder and bid him goodnight. When the old man finally left, with a promise to see him bright and early, he nodded, and when he was finally shut in with his thoughts, he let his head fall against the door with a thud.

[dovabunny]

Nobody Would Want to Dance with a Magic Ox

Click link above to read on Ao3 or read below under the cut.

Relationship: Adaar/Krem

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Rating: Teen

Characters: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi; Female Adaar; Female Inquisitor; The Iron Bull; Josephine Montilyet; Leliana; Dorian Pavus; Cullen Rutherford            

Tags: fictober18; cremquisitor;

Chapter: 1/1

Series: FicTober Ficlets

Summary: Adaar had always thought nobody would ever look at her and see beauty and strength in equal measure, that nobody could ever love her as she is. She always thought nobody would ever want to dance with her, especially not more than once. Maker, she has never been more happy to be right.

FicTober prompt ( from @barbex ): “I thought you would forget

Dragon Age Inktober prompt (from Dankou): Halamshiral

The result: this hot garbage.

Adaar shifted uncomfortably in the constricting fruity outfit they made her wear. For someone used to wearing Arishok armour while twirling a staff around at lightning speed, feeling like a stuffed nug in a frilly sock was...demeaning and embarrassing.

But they meant well, her advisors. Josie had practically bounced on her toes when first she saw Adaar in the Inquisition formal attire, calling her both ‘striking’ and ‘resplendent’. Whatever the fade that means. Leliana has smirked in that creepy I-can-murder-you-in-your-sleep-but-chose-not-to-you’re-welcome way of hers, speculating that the Inquisitor would be flooded with hopeful suitors. Cullen was the only one who grumbled along with her as they tugged and frowned at their outfits.

But standing here, on the balcony of the queen of Orlais’ home or whatever (Maker, Josie will kill her if she heard those thoughts), there was no sweeping compliments, no swooning suitors, and no friendly faces. There were masks and gossip, thinly-veiled insults and condescending giggles. No one cared that she had saved Briala’s ex-girlfriend and thereby saving the whole damn country from a bloody civil war. Oh no, they’d rather keep their distance from the 7ft grey giant with swooping black horns adorned in gold, long white hair braided to her butt, and the tell-tale scars around her red lips of where she had once been silenced.

Too big, too opposing, too ugly, too grey, too non-human, too...horny.

She allowed herself a stupid little giggle at that last bit.

Truth be told, very few things made her smile these days. Before Haven fell she had been a simple woman that found happiness in simple things - good food, a good fight, good ale, and good company was enough to have her grinning ear to ear with a flush on her cheeks. Being with Bull’s Chargers gave her that long lost sense of belonging. Around that lot of misfits she felt safe to be herself and let her guard down, they never judged only teased, and never talked in circles.

And then...there was Krem.

The first time she had seen the lieutenant, swinging a gigantic warhammer like it was a turkey leg, looking like the hero from one of Varric’s fantastic romance stories - she’d felt something strange twist in her stomach. It had taken her a long time to realise that twist was her having a ginormous crush on the man. But instead of being a decent adult about it, instead she blushed like a virgin maid about to get her V card stamped by Zevran Arainai, and running to hide whenever she saw him in fear that instead of words only garbled sounds would escape her. That actually did happen, three times, where she would drink that strong shit Iron Bull said could make you damn-near breath fire and grow a tail, until she felt brave enough to approach the handsome, strapping warrior standing on his chair like he was the king of the tavern….

...not knowing he was the king of her heart.

...holy fuck, did she really just think that? That’s good shit! She needs to give Varric some tips on writing romance, seems she’s a natural. But only in theory.

Each time she opened her mouth to say something smart or witty, to compliment that way he sweeps his warhammer low to knock enemies off their feet before spinning it up to slam back down crushing the skull of a Venatori. Or maybe she would compliment his choice of haircut? How he could burp words in Qunlat? It made no difference what she ‘planned’ on saying, because all that came out was “so-Ima-fyo-imean-notwha-hnggk…” right before she turned and all but fled the Tavern to go hide under the hay in the stables. If Blackwall saw her he never said a word. Good man that, seems honest and reliable.

Because of such profoundly mature and sophisticated behaviour one might come to expect of a person of her status and office - she had started to avoid Krem, the Tavern, and the Chargers. Heck, she even avoided being in Skyhold if she could. There would barely be a ‘welcome back, Inquisitor’ before there was a ‘let’s go get something to drink’ and then of course a ‘Boss! The chargers and I haven’t seen you in a while, ain’t that right, Kerem de-la Creme?’ and she’d be ‘I NEED TO GO TO THE HISSING WASTES’ -ing out of Skyhold before anyone could say ‘Dorian your mustache is looking marvelous for someone who had just arrived back at civilisation not ten minutes ago from the Fallow Mire’.

It was the last night before the Inquisition left Skyhold for Halamshiral that she decided to cave and go wallow in self-pity at Herald’s Rest, her forehead planted on the table she claimed for herself in the corner. She typically gave off quite a ‘keep your distance I am big and scary’ aura, even without the glowing arm, but tonight she was giving off plain old ‘fuck off’ vibes. Of course ‘vibes’ never meant shit if you’re the Iron Bull.

“Bummed about the upcoming party?” he cheerfully said in that warm gravelly voice of his. “It’s not that bad, boss. We’ll go, save the empress, scare some humans, have them kiss our asses, and then get our bellies full of fancy food and wine.” At her barely scoffed response, his voice went a little softer. “What’s this really about? You got a weak stomach for Orlesian Ham? Dorian claims it tastes of despair. Scared of masks? Can’t dance in red velvet?”

“Bull, if you don’t shut up and let me drink I’ll send that redhead in the kitchens to Redcliffe and there’ll be no more ‘strawberry shortcake’ for you. And yes I meant it like that.” Adaar snorted mirthlessly. “Besides, I’m a giant grey ox mage with fade power gifted by Andraste herself and more scars than they have hair. Nobody would want to dance with me…” She had said the words softly, whispering it to the wood on the table, not intending it to fall on any ears.

Especially not the beautiful ears of a handsome Tevinter warrior who looked at her with slight confusion and concern when she finally lifted her head.  

The inquisitor tugged at the tight collar, ripping a few seams so she could breathe. With not much else to do, she amused herself by watching the gardens below. The balcony was secluded enough to not draw the attention of other guests looking to step into the cool air but still wanting to bask in the festivities. And those seeking seclusion for ‘other’ reasons, well, she could see them behind various shrubbery and hedges from where she stood. She’ll commend them for their commitment, that’s for sure, for soldiering through removing so many layers of cloth and frill and belts and skirts before they get to smoosh the parts together they want to smoosh together. Maybe she should go call Cassandra...

As it were, she was so distracted that she completely missed the doors behind her open and close, as well as the steps towards her, till a not-so-subtle throat clearing had her whirl around, her long white braid whipping her in the face as she started with “I wasn’t looking at anything!” only to freeze.

“Inquisitor,” Krem greeted with a polite nod of the head. His hair neatly styled to the side (she suspected Dorian had a hand in that, literally), his uniform showing off his broad shoulders, strong arms, and soldier’s posture.

But that wasn’t what caused her breath to catch.

Stuck to his chest was a little scrap of paper with the word ‘Nobody’ written on it.

Krem smirked when he saw her stare at it. “I may have overhead you say ‘nobody’ would want to dance with you.”

Her eyes went wide as he took a step closer, his arms behind his back, all cool confidence and determination. “I… I thought you’d forgotten,” she said dumbly. But HEY at least it was words!

Krem’s smirk turned into a smile as he stopped in front of her and offered her his hand. “It would be very hard for me to forget you, my Inquisitor.” He extended one sinfully strong leg and gave a bow. “Now, would you be willing to dance with a nobody? Because nobody very much wants to dance with you.”

They couldn’t dance, neither of them, but heck if those kids didn’t care. Even as she towered over him, Adaar seemed to look up at Krem with stars in her eyes as he leads her in a swaying twirl around the balcony. They laughed and teased and danced, and her heart felt full.

Adaar had always thought nobody would ever look at her and see beauty and strength in equal measure, that nobody could ever love her as she is. She always thought nobody would ever want to dance with her, especially not more than once.  

Maker, she has never been more happy to be right.

[cha0ticmimzy]

Here Lies The Abyss, part I

Author’s Notes: Word slips out from the soldiers about just who Sylthana is, and what she’s done. Cullen chooses the wrong time to approach her about it.  Word Count: 1943 Warnings: Spoilers for Here Lies The Abyss, and slight gore? Not really much of anything. 

“So, it’s true?” Cullen asked, voice soft as Sylthana carefully examined her blades. He’d been surprised when he’d entered her chambers only to find her entire bed and the desk covered with various blades of different sizes and poisons- so many poisons. “Your past?”

“Yes.” Came the simple reply as the rogue stood, holding a blade up to the light. It was crafted in such a way that down the center lay a vein that held poison. The poison was poured into it by the handle- a small panel that could be pressed upon, opening the chamber to hold the poison. Far safer compared to simply dousing a blade in poison and calling it a day! “I was a blade for hire. You knew that already.”

“No.” Cullen shook his head, leaning back against the wall beside the fireplace. “You know that isn’t what I meant, Sylthana.”

“What do you want me to say, Cullen?” She exclaimed, spinning around to face her lover. “That I’ve killed more men than you have? That I’m the creature parents tell their children of to get them to behave? That I could put the Antivan Crows to shame with some of the murders I’ve done?

"Or do you wish to hear of the exact details? How I’ve flayed men alive while they screamed out their secrets? How I’ve broken bones, pulled out nails, all to send a message or for coin?” Cullen’s face had paled, but she didn’t stop. He wanted the truth- he would have it. “Or better yet, what about the time I was sent to Orlais to slaughter an entire family while they slept? All aside from the child? I’ve done horrible things, Cullen. And once this whole… Shit show is over, chances are- I’ll do them again.”

Cullen was silent, studying the woman before him. Fierce- he’d known that from the first time he’d seen her, in the War Room. Terrifying- yes, he knew that as well, from watching her training against Solas and Varric’s attacks. Monstrous? The thought had never crossed his mind. But now, know that she was the Shadow of Fereldan- that she was a murderer, and a very accomplished one at that… It sent a chill across his skin. Heat, anger, coursing through his veins.

“I’m not a good person.” Sylthana whispered, oceanic hues dark with subdued anger. “I won’t pretend as if I’m some saint. I’m not.”

Cullen frowned, finding himself at a loss for words. She wasn’t a horrible person, nor a monster. But he couldn’t ignore the horrors of what she had done.

“… If you aren’t going to say anything, leave.” Her voice broke through the silence, and he noticed that she was shaking. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, but- “Leave. Now.”

“… You aren’t a horrible person.” He murmured before he turned, making his way down the stairs quietly. He tried to ignore it, tried his best- but the sound of her sobs pierced the silence, then came the sound of glass shattering. Brow furrowing, he opened the door- and closed it. Let her think he left.

He would wait.

She didn’t need to be alone.

Three weeks. Three weeks had passed since that night. Three weeks since Sylthana had told Cullen to leave- and he left. Or, well- he didn’t leave. She knew he didn’t: after she’d stopped crying, she could hear him occasionally shift.

In the morning, though, he was gone.

She avoided him as much as she could, but eventually, she had to see him. She had to, because Adamant. Because of that damned mission. They needed to see what was happening, and Cullen’s men would be there. He would be there, leading his men. So would Hawke, and King Alistair. Two men she never thought she’d meet.

How odd, that in just a few months, all of this would happen.

Swallowing down her pride, she finished packing away her weapons and potions, pausing to stare at the coin Cullen had given her.

She slid the coin into a hidden inner pocket within her armor before leaving her quarters.

The Western Approach was hot, and sandy, and hot. Too bright, too. Solas stood to her right, Cassandra to her left, and Bull directly behind. Perfectly flanking her. Before her, the fortress stood- tall, imposing. Something was wrong- she could feel it in the air. The wind didn’t blow here, as if nature itself had sensed something was wrong.

Hawke and Alistair met her at the entrance, both men tall and menacing, yet holding a worried air about them. Hawke explained that blood magic was being performed, and that he would take pointe as she and Alistair went in first.

The sight of the fade rift made her blood curdle as her mark reacted to it.

“Inquisitor! So glad you could make it. Lord Livius Erimond de Virantium, at your service.” The man spoke, voice holding hints of a Tevene accent, as he bowed low at the waist. A mockery. Just the sight of him was enough to cause her skin to c r a w l. How disgusting.

“I’m guess you’re not a Warden,” Alistair spoke up beside her, drawing her gaze to the king.

“But you are. The one Clarell let slip.” Erimond spat out, disgust lacing his words. “And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me. Shall we see how that goes?” He sneered.

“Looks like you’ve already done some of my work f o r me.” Sylthana chimed in, a cold, cruel smirk curling her lips.

“What, him? We simply needed his blood. Oh- were you hoping to garner sympathy? Maybe make the Warden feel a bit of remorse? Wardens, hands up!” As if puppets upon a string, the remaining wardens lifted their left hands. Sylthana bared her teeth in disgust as she drew out her blade. “Hands down.”

“Corypheus has enslaved them.” Alistair snarled out, disgust evident within his voice.

“They did this to themselves. You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked everywhere for help.” Erimond shrugged, as if it explained everything. Sylthana found herself hating the man more with every passing second.

“Including Tevinter.” Alistair finished, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, and since it was my Master who put the Calling into their little heads, we and the venatori were prepared.” The snake of a man continued to speak. All Sylthana could picture as slicing his throat open and letting him choke upon his own blood. “I went to Clarell full of sympathy, and together, we came up with a plan.” A moment passed as his words sunk in to those present. “Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill the Old Gods before they wake.”

Horror settled upon her bones. Beside her, she felt Alistair stiffen. Solas hissed softly, and Bull let out a disgusted grunt.

“Ah, I was wondering when the demon army would show up!” She pitched in, sarcasm coating her words. Behind her, she could hear Solas’ approving chuckle.

“You… Knew about it, did you? Well then!” Erimond was thrown off his game. A sly smirk curled Sylthana’s lips as she listened to the waver in his voice. “Here you are. Sadly for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a side effect. They’re now my master’s slaves!

"This was a test. Once the remaining wardens complete the ritual, the army will conquer Thedas!” Erimond finished.

A snarl curled her lip upwards, a sharpened incisor gleaning in the desert sun. “That’s all I needed to know!” She all but growled out, bloodlust filling her veins.

Erimond smirked. “Oh, please,” voice saccharin, he tossed a hand up, red coating it before Sylthana’s mark activated. Pain ripped through her, causing her to let out a yelp as she doubled over, grasping her wrist.

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with you in the event that you were foolish enough to interfere again.” She collapsed, knees thudding against stone harsh enough to make her teeth clack before she doubled over. It felt as if liquid lightning were filling her veins. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “That mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my Master. He’s been forced to seek other ways to seek access to the Veil.” Erimond explained, seething with hatred.

Sylthana let out a soft gasp as the pain subsided. Slowly, she rose to her feet- only to allow the Anchor to activate, closing the rift before her. “You talk far too much.” She murmured, more to herself than anything, as Erimond began to scamper away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“Kill them!” Erimond called out in command. Battle broke out, demons and wardens alike fighting. It ended just as quickly as it started, however- Sylthana tried not to think of the innocent, confused wardens whose lives had been stolen from them.

Hawke jogged forward, blood splattered across his armor. “They refused to listen to reason,” he explained.

“You were right,” Alistair began, “thanks to the ritual, the Wardens are enslaved to Corypheus.”

Sylthana didn’t want to admit the sympathy she felt as she left the Western Approach.

Skyhold was chaos when she returned. Soldiers were readying themselves for battle, healers were scattered here and there. Scouts were constantly coming and go to and fro. She almost missed the Western Approach.

Had it not been for the blood magic.

Quietly, she slipped away, hiding within her chambers for a moment of peace. Which didn’t last long, for the sound of her door opening reached her. Heavy footfalls thudded upon the stairs, armor clinking with each step. Cullen. She knew it before she could even see his blond hair appear.

“Josephine told me where you were. I… Hope I’m not intruding?” He stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs, as if he were ready to take off the moment she dismissed him. It sent a jolt of pain through her, but she dismissed it quickly.

“What is it?” She asked as she began to clean her blades. Cullen shifted his weight before approaching slowly, akin to how one would approach a wild animal. It made her want to laugh. Then again, perhaps that’s what she was- some sort of wild animal.

“I… Wanted to check in and see how you were.” His voice was so soft, so gentle. Oh, how it pained her to have hurt him. 

Sighing, she turned, sapphire gaze taking in the worry upon his face. “I’m fine. Tired from the journey back, but fine otherwise. Have Josephine and Leliana gone to the War Room already?” She asked, turning to strip off her armor. It wasn’t as if she were stripling down completely just enough to get the heavy breastplate and chainmail off. Yet, she still heard him move, turning his back to her.

A gentleman.

“They have.”

“Good.” Armor successfully taken off, she turned, and went to move past him. That is, until she paused mid step and looked up at him. “Cullen… I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t-”

“I do. I’m sorry. And I promise, we will talk- after all of this. Let’s get through this, and then we can talk.” A nervous weight settled upon her shoulders as she studied his expression. Relief danced with worry in his eyes, but he still nodded. Slowly, he grasped her hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Of course. Lead the way, Inquisitor.”

[mahalzevran]

What about your OCs, who are their closest friends? What are their favorite things about each other? Was there a moment they realized how much they meant to each other or did it happen before they knew it?

I’m just gonna answer for my DA ocs but if anyone wants to know about my ME ocs then lmk! 

This went on longer than I realized so it’s under a read more

For Rhian, it would be a tie between Alistair and Anders. 

She and Alistair really relate to each other over many things. For example the whole “not knowing where you belong” thing. Alistair can’t really belong with the commoners because he’s an illegitimate child and he can’t fit in with the nobles for the same reason. Rhian’s also in an in between state of identity because she grew up in the Circle where of course there’s prejudice towards elves, no matter how much they advertise equality between humans and elves. So she doesn’t feel elfy enough but she also can’t fit in with shems. Rhian really likes that they relate to each other a lot because she never had that connection with someone before. As for Alistair, he could probably write a book on his favorite things about Rhian since he’s low-key (high-key) in love with her. One of his faves is that she’s really emphatic (empathetic?). She cares a lot about people. They realized how much they meant to each other in different ways. For Rhian, it was more gradual. It happened before she knew it. I hc that Ostagar took longer than the game implies, maybe a week or so? So Alistair had already spent a considerable amount of time with Rhian by the time they got to Lothering. He realized he had a crush on her then, like he talks about when he gives you the rose. But I he didn’t realize how much she meant to him until she agreed to find Goldanna and how she tried to comfort him afterwards.

Rhian’s relationship with Anders didn’t really deepen until Amaranthine. In the Circle, they looked out for each other (Anders more so than Rhian since he was older) and they were kinda friends but they mostly kept some distance since getting close with the other apprentices was discouraged. Rhian realized he meant a lot to her after Broken Circle. She thought he had died then and got really upset. I think Anders realized how much he cared for her when they met again at Amaranthine because of how relieved he was to see her again and how she did everything in her power to protect him from the Templars.

Kaia gets pretty close with the mage companions because she’s been trying to hide her magic her whole life and it was nice to meet other mages besides Bethany and her dad. But she’s the closest to Anders. She loves how passionate he is and how much he cares about others. He likes how well meaning she is and how loyal she is towards friends and family. There wasn’t a moment when they realized how much they meant to each other, it happened before they knew it.

Alden’s closest friend is none other than Fenris. His favorite thing about Fenris is how thoughtful he is. There’s always an intention behind everything he says and does. Fenris loves how dedicated Alden is to his friends and family and how carefree he is. Fenris realized how much Alden meant to him when Alden respected Fenris’ need for space and how that didn’t stop him from helping him with Varania and Danarius anyway. Alden realized he was in love with Fenris when he first showed up and ripped that guy’s heart out. In all seriousness though, it was when he and Fenris first got together after the meeting with Orana (don’t judge Alden he’s a romantic). Isabela gets an honorable mention because she and him just vibe really well.

Lu’s closest friends would be Dorian and Merrill. She did have two friends in her own clan, but they died in the conclave explosion (I’d talk more about them but I’m lazy and haven’t developed much about them yet). 

At first, she was wary of Dorian because of him being Tevinter and her being both Seheron and an elf. But she grew to love and care for him over time. Especially since she’d go to him for necromancy tips, they’re both big Nerds™, and they’re both brown. Dorian realized how much Lu meant to him when she helped him with his dad. Lu really likes how she can just nerd out with Dorian and Dorian likes how confident Lu is about herself.

Merrill is one of the last few things has from her old life before becoming Inquisitor. They met during an arlathvhen when they were young and always kept touch. Both of them bonded over the people in their clans not really understanding them and so kind of ostracizing them, though their situations are different. Merrill for reasons that were shown in da2 and Lu because her personality isn’t exactly friendly (hence why she only had two friends in her clan). Both of them are really into dalish history and preserving their culture. Lu had always had a small crush on Merrill, so her feelings developed from there. The moment they realized how much they meant to each other was not too long after Marethari died. Lu’s clan happened to be passing by so she visited and comforted Merrill. They fell in love in the time between dai and trespasser because Lu was more free to visit her so she helped Merrill help the Kirkwall Alienage. They didn’t officially go into a relationship until after Trespasser though.

Actually, now that I think about it, Solas should be on this list too. Lu was first drawn to Solas because he was kind of the only other elf in the Inquisition, and plus he was a mage, so Lu thought there’d be solidarity between them. It got a little shaky though because Solas kept trashing the dalish. But they became really close over time, mostly because Lu liked talking about elvhen history with him and also the Fade because she likes to learn. Lu’s favorite thing about Solas was that she could go to him to talk about anything and nothing. They used to have conversations all night. She liked how much thought he put into things and the fact that he cared about the little people. Solas likes how confident Lu is and that she doesn’t really take shit from people. She’s passionate about the things she cares about. He also likes how protective she is towards the people close to her. Solas liked her first, but the moment he realized how much she meant to him was after his personal quest when he leaves the party for a moment. Lu fell in love with him over time, but the moment she realized it was when they were storming the Old Temple during Jaws of Hakkon. She absolutely hates the cold so the ice magic affected her a bit more than the others. Solas noticed her shivering really bad so he put his arms around her to try to warm her up a little.

Bolin didn’t have a lot of friends while he was in the carta because of reasons I talked about before so his first real and proper friend was Sera. They just really vibed the minute they met. She helped Bolin get out of his shell and is his wingman. Bolin really likes Sera’s way of thinking because she points out things that he wouldn’t have noticed. It’s also really helpful tactically. He also likes that she cares about the little people. Sera’s favorite thing about Bolin is that from the start, he didn’t look down on her like other tend to. He actually takes her seriously. There wasn’t really a moment they realized they cared for each other. It happened before they knew it.