#but seeing him just launch himself into blight to go to him ???

[ace-kellen]

Bruh fuck this "no choices have impact" bullshit, I just had to choose between my wife and my bestie and his dog, what do you mean no impact-

(don't look at the tag if you don't want to be spoiled)

(I'm specifically not tagging this so the fandom doesn't find me, I am not in the right head space to deal with anyone rn)

[himluv]

Haunting

Chapter 34 of Say My Name (Say it Twice) is here! In which a trip to the Hossberg Wetlands brings up old memories for Lucanis.

Read it below, or on AO3!

Enjoy!

Rook always took Lucanis to the nicest places. He disliked the Hossberg Wetlands almost as much as he did the Grand Necropolis. The oppressive, rotten stink of the Blight hung heavy in the air and Darkspawn crawled from every cave and canyon. 

They’d just vanquished a demon locked away in a mansion – which Spite had hated – after defeating an encampment of Venatori – which both he and Spite had relished. Now, they were on their way to check on Flynn’s mentor, Oskar. 

Normally, Lucanis would take up the rear of their party, but since Davrin was with them – and he and the Warden were once again not speaking – Davrin refused to have Lucanis at his back. The truth was, Lucanis wasn’t all that mad at Davrin. Yes, he’d basically drugged Rook with his disgusting tea, but that night was not something Lucanis regretted. At all.

Besides, he found Davrin’s wariness amusing. He was more than happy to let the Warden sweat for the time being. And Lucanis would happily follow two steps behind Rook and her swaying hips. 

He’d thought that, after the heated night he and Rook shared in the dining hall, things might have settled between them. Instead, it was as if his fuse had shortened. It took so little for his mind to turn to inappropriate thoughts and it felt as though his blood were set to a permanent simmer. 

It was distracting, the way he played that night over and over in his mind in any idle moment. How his stomach flipped and his pulse raced at the memory of her body pressed to his. How immediately his own body responded to the memory of her heat. It was embarrassing. 

In the past, on the rare occasions his body had demanded release, Lucanis had dealt with it quickly. Efficiently. It was simply another bodily function – inconvenient, but sometimes necessary. 

But it had been a long time since his body had been so… insistent. And now he was never truly alone. He wasn’t sure how to handle this situation with Spite constantly watching him, asking questions and needling him to speed things along with Rook. He’d considered it the other night, in the dark of the pantry, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach down and go through with it. Not with Spite looming in the back of his mind. 

He didn’t want to explain masturbation to a demon.

“We’ve got Darkspawn,” Davrin called from behind him. And sure enough, when Lucanis looked up there were ghouls sprinting toward them, down the trail from a small cabin. 

Mierda, he should have heard them sooner. Lucanis knew better than to allow himself to be so distracted out in the field. Someone would get hurt if he didn’t get his act together. 

In a flash of purple, Spite’s wings unfurled, and Lucanis launched at the nearest ghoul, his blades making quick work of the thing. Above him, Assan shrieked as he swooped down to claw at a Hurlock, while Rook’s magic crackled around the battlefield, lightning arcing between several enemies. 

The Darkspawn were artless attackers, their only tactic was to overwhelm and they had no sense of self-preservation. They were not exactly satisfying to dispatch, like the Venatori could be. Especially the mages. But, Rook rarely went anywhere without Lucanis these days, so if she wanted him to kill Darkspawn by her side, he would. 

After the last of the Darkspawn fell to Davrin’s blade, Rook started off back up the trail. She stopped at the top and shook her head. 

“That doesn’t look good,” she said. 

Lucanis joined her, frowning at the sight before them. The cabin and its meagre gardens had been completely overrun by the blight. Behind him, Davrin sighed. 

“No, it doesn’t,” the Warden said. 

Lucanis remained silent as he followed Rook toward the house. He knew they would find nothing good there, but seeing Oskar’s wife on their bed, her body subsumed by blight tendrils, brought a fresh wave of icy fear to his sternum. 

“It moved so fast,” Rook said, speaking of the blight. “But, Oskar isn’t here.”

She and Davrin looked around the cabin for clues to the physician’s whereabouts, but Lucanis stayed by the bed, staring down at poor Marta. He’d seen more corpses than most, had caused plenty of them himself. He’d even seen Wardens succumb to the blight, either at Weisshaupt or to their Calling while on contracts. But something about the woman laying there, her face lost to the blight, rattled him. 

“Looks like he went to search for Brona’s Bloom,” Davrin said. “It’s rumored to slow the spread of the blight.”

From the other room, Rook’s voice sounded grim. “He must have gone looking for it to give to his wife.”

The cabin was small, but it was well kept. Before the blight, it might have even been quaint. It was easy to imagine a simple, good life within its walls. Oskar and Marta probably gardened, read by the fire, cooked and baked, and helped their community. Marta’s dress was handmade, stitched with painstaking detail and well-mended. 

There had been a life in this house. There had been love. And it had been snuffed out by the whim of monster claiming herself a god. The monster he had failed to kill.

“Lucanis?” Rook asked. She was back in the bedroom, standing close to him, but not touching. “Are you all right?”

He glanced at her, then looked back at the body sprawled on the bed. He took in the anguished twist of her spine, the way the blight had erased her face and then destroyed her home. This was a consequence of his failure. A wrong he could never make right. Even if they did find Oskar alive, Lucanis was not sure that would be a mercy. 

He turned away from the bed. “Let’s find this physician,” he said, and marched back out into the night. 

They found Oskar, dead beside a tuft of Brona’s Bloom, his bag full of the cut flowers. The man had died without knowing the fate of his wife. They had both been alone, in the end, neither knowing what had become of the other. Lucanis wasn’t sure if that was better or worse, but the image of Marta dead in their bed followed him back to Lavendell.

The icy feeling in his chest felt tighter and tighter with every step.

Rook gave Flynn the news and the satchel of flowers. A sad consolation for the loss of their mentor, though they took it well. They were no stranger to loss, it seemed. Few who remained in the Wetlands were. 

“I’m going to stick around,” Davrin said. Even he sounded disheartened by the evening’s events. “Catch up with Antoine and Evka.”

Rook nodded. “Sounds good,” she said. 

Lucanis looked at Davrin, and they shared the barest of nods, little more than a reluctant lift of their chins. But it was an offering of peace, an acknowledgment that there were more pressing matters than their personal feuds. It was a step forward, for them both. 

Rook headed for the eluvian and Lucanis followed after her. This time, his mind spared no thought for the sway of her hips. Instead he thought of women dead in their beds and how he seemed doomed to fail them. 

They didn’t speak as they made their way back through the Crossroads. He appreciated that about Embria – she gave him space when he needed it, without him needing to ask. Somehow, she just knew. 

Once they were back in the Lighthouse, Lucanis looked down at his feet. “Goodnight, Rook.” He made to go, but her hand on his pulled him to a stop.

“What’s going on?” She asked. Blue and purple light undulated behind her, the mirror still active. “You’ve been distant all night.”

He shook his head. “I’m just tired,” he said. It was true, he was tired. It just wasn’t why he was being distant.

She frowned. “Is Spite still not letting you sleep?”

“No!” Spite said. “Lucanis. Sleeps! Spite knows now.”

 She watched him, and Lucanis saw the glimmer of suspicion in her eyes, saw when she chose to stuff it down and let him have his little lie. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He smiled, but it felt forced. “Of course,” he said. 

Again, she eyed him, that now-familiar crease in her brow. So, he pulled her to him for a gentle embrace and placed a kiss on her forehead. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he whispered against her skin. 

She snorted, but her voice was kind when she said, “you’re a terrible liar.”

He smiled, a little more genuinely this time. “I know,” he said.

She tilted her face up to his and kissed him. Warm, yes, but heatless. Just a press of reassurance and affection. Lucanis lingered in that warmth, desperate to ward off the chill he’d carried with him from the Anderfels. 

“I’ll have coffee ready in the morning,” he said once they broke apart. An offering of sorts, so that she might know this wasn’t about her. 

“Okay,” she said. She still didn’t seem entirely convinced. 

It felt strange, talking around his dark mood and desire to be alone. He could probably just say these things to her and she would understand. But she also might try to help, and he wasn’t ready for that quite yet. 

He needed to think. To sleep. He needed time to shake the dark thoughts haunting him. So, he squeezed her hand once, then turned his back and made his way to the dining hall. To the pantry with its close shadows. To his bed, where he might find some peace from his churning thoughts. 

Lucanis ran through the halls of Villa Dellamorte. The East Wing, lower level. The level Caterina would one day completely remodel from a suite of family rooms to a salon for larger parties. But, this was Villa Dellamorte as it once was. Glittering and resplendent and echoing with the screams of the dying. 

He’d been awake. Even as a boy he’d struggled to sleep at night and often explored the Villa in the wee hours, when his family finally went to sleep. With seven rowdy cousins, he preferred the quiet. 

But the Villa was not quiet now. There were shouts and curses, the gurgle of blood choking up breathless throats. The ringing song of blades meeting, followed by the dull thud of steel sinking into flesh. 

Lucanis ran through the halls of Villa Dellamorte, and all around him, his family was dying. He held a small dagger in his right hand, a recent birthday gift from his father, and it dripped with blood. His arm was coated in the hot slick, his neck and face splattered with it. 

He’d surprised the assassin lurking outside Illario’s door, caught him under the arm. It would have killed him, but Lucanis’s knife was too short to reach the man’s heart. Lucanis knew that, so he’d immediately withdrawn the knife and went for the low back with several ferocious jabs. As the assassin sank before him, Lucanis gripped his head in the crook of his arm and dragged his blade across the man’s throat. 

There wasn’t time to think after that. He didn’t even check on his cousin. He hurried through the halls, coated in a strange Crow’s blood, to find his parents. When he turned into their hall, it was empty. The door to Lucanis’s room stood open on the right, the contents strewn around the chamber as the assassins had searched for him. 

But, he hadn’t been there. He’d been down in the cellar feeding scraps to the rats.

Further down, the door to his parents’ room hung open only a crack. There was a smear of red across the wood, already drying to a rusty brown. A part of him, the part that was still very much a child – he’d only just turned ten! – hoped that meant his parents were alive. That the blood on the door was an unknown Crow’s and when he pushed through into the room he would find only a stranger’s corpse.

But the rest of him, the part that was already growing into a master assassin, knew better. 

He opened the door. Lantern light from the hall spilled across the floor, illuminating the foot of the bed. The blankets were strewn off one side, piled up to cover a shape on the floor. The iron tang of blood filled the air. This room had once smelled of his mother’s perfume – a delicate blend of embrium and crystal grace. But, after this night, the metallic scent of blood was what Lucanis would always recall when he thought of his mother. 

On the bed, the light from the hall revealed his mother, her hand dangling off the mattress, her opal ring missing from her middle finger. 

He stepped closer, even as a part of him screamed not to. He didn’t need to look, he knew the truth. His parents were dead – his father discarded on the floor beneath a blood-soaked duvet and his mother pale and bloodless on the bed. 

He knew this. He had seen it before, the first time. He didn’t need to relive it now. But, still, he stepped closer. Trembling footsteps waded through a cooling pool of blood, but he didn’t stop. The assassins had started here, then worked their way West toward the center of the villa. 

Lucanis and his parents had been the primary targets. The contract was for the heirs of Caterina Dellamorte. 

He took another step, his view suddenly from a higher angle, the bed surrounded by writhing blight tendrils. He looked down on the face of the dead woman on the bed, and instead of the caramel brown gaze of Ana Sofía Dellamorte, he stared into lifeless, crystal grace eyes.  

Lucanis lurched up on his cot, sweat sticking to his bare chest, his hair slick at the back of his neck. Air came in fast, short, panicked breaths that only made him feel worse. More out of control. He took a deep breath, counting as he held it, then released it. Again and again and again, until his heart settled in his chest. 

He had not dreamt of House Velardo’s coup attempt in a long, long time. That he dreamt of it tonight, however, was not surprising. He’d been haunted by intrusive memories since they’d discovered the physician’s wife, Marta, dead in her bed. 

What surprised him, what unsettled him most, was that the dream had replaced his mother with Embria. He shuddered as the image of her lifeless face flashed through his mind again. 

No! Spite growled. Rook is here. Is Alive!

“I know,” Lucanis said, rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t believe in the portent of dreams. He had too many bad ones to mistake them as anything more than anxiety and fear leaking out in his sleep. And yet…

The image of Rook dead in his mother’s place felt ominous. Like a warning, something he shouldn’t ignore. But if it was some ill omen, he had no idea what to do about it. And he refused to let a nightmare chase away the only good thing in his life. 

So, Lucanis got up and dressed, though he still felt shaky and out of sorts. Spite assured him that it was morning, that he’d slept through the night, so Lucanis set to brewing coffee – he had promised he would, after all. 

He poured a cup and leaned against the hutch, still too rattled by his dream to settle down. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long for a distraction. 

Rook! Spite said, turning to look at the dining hall door. Lucanis smiled into his cup when the door opened and Embria walked through. 

“Hey,” she said once she was close enough. She waited a careful distance from him and gave him a concerned look. “Rough night?”

He sighed. “Dreams.”

She grimaced, then stepped up to the percolator and poured coffee into her usual mug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugged. He wasn’t sure that would help, but standing around brooding about it wasn’t likely to help, either. “Finding the physician’s wife yesterday… it dredged up old memories. Of the night House Velardo tried to end House Dellamorte.”

There was silence for a moment as she processed his words, his meaning. Then she asked, “you were there that night?”

“Yes.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see the pity on her face. “Illario, too.” He braced himself for the next, natural questions – how did you survive? What happened? Where was Caterina? – but he should have known Embria would surprise him. 

She said nothing. Only slid a little closer to him and laced her fingers through his. 

Lucanis closed his eyes and shifted so that their sides pressed together a little more firmly. She was so warm, and he wanted – needed – that comfort. He sighed. “It’s an old pain,” he said. “One I thought I’d mastered.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think grief works like that,” she said.

He gave her a crooked smile. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Her gaze was earnest but soft. Not pushing, not hunting for a solution to the problem so that he could get back to his usual self. Instead, she genuinely seemed to want to make him feel better, whatever that might mean in the moment. 

He tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, something he was beginning to realize they both loved. “You already have,” he said. He tilted her chin up and kissed her, slow and aching. Surely, there was no better way to banish the cling of nightmares than with her mouth on his.

Lucanis didn’t think he would ever get used to kissing Embria. Each time was different, some new emotion attached to the action, some new thrill he’d never thought to know running down his spine. 

And though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to her yet, he knew he would gladly spend a lifetime learning each and every iteration of her kiss. 

[inquisimer]

it is your blood in my veins

it's still the 13th in my timezone which means I am not late with this piece for @febuwhump day 13: you weren't supposed to get hurt.

Summary: Mahariel brings the cure to Skyhold. Carver doesn't want it.

read it on ao3 here

Female Hawke & Carver Hawke | Rated T | 1425 words | CW: terminal illnesses, survivor guilt, canon-typical violence

-

The battlements were one of Carver’s favorite respites. The crisp, clear air around Skyhold settled his mind and put logic to his jumbled emotions. He’d thought himself far past the kind of irrational fury his sister inspired, but some things outlasted all time, it seemed.

She just didn’t get it. And he couldn’t really fault her. The Wardens taught him patience and acceptance. Resignation. Whereas Kirkwall taught Léan…well, it taught her something. And it had left her running on adrenaline and desperate hope for almost two decades.

She just pushed. Always. Pushed and pushed and pushed more, past any kind of reasonable line in the sand. That’s how she survived. And that’s why he heard her boots clicking on the stairs, when he’d clearly come up here to be alone.

“You can’t hide.” She launched right back into their argument. “This isn’t something you can avoid.”

“It’s not something you can control,” he countered. “Hard as it seems for you to accept that.”

A sharp clang bounced off the mountain peaks as Léan kicked the wall. “I could. I could knock you out and drag you back down there and let her heal you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Carver scoffed. But metal-wrapped fingers flexed against his armor nevertheless. Of course, he should have known better. Anything more than a sneeze was a challenge to Léan—especially from him.

Before he’d blinked, her staff was in her hands. He expected frost to creep up his boots, or a bolt to find his chest. But neither came—in fact, she didn’t draw the Fade to her will at all. She gripped her weapon like a plain quarterstaff and spun at him like a whirlwind.

Instinctively, he blocked the first attack with his arm, quickly freeing his greatsword from the scabbard on his back. He brought the flat of it up to meet the subsequent blows, and, once he’d found his footing, locked her staff in a stalemate.

“Really?” he gritted out. “Is this the time?”

“It was your idea,” she snipped. Ducking, she freed her weapon and swung it at his head. Carver caught it with his pommel, twisting her into a tighter grapple against the wall.

“Let it go, Léan,” he ground out. “I don’t want what she has. It’s too late for me.”

“It’s not. She was farther gone than you! And she’s fine.”

“Is she?” A bitter laugh broke off into a grunt as Carver sidestepped a kick. He hooked his boot around her staff blade, taking advantage of his mass to knock her off-balance. “Have you actually talked to her, beyond what she said? Because I have. And she has more regrets than you and I combined—so, are you sure that’s what you want for me?”

“I’m not asking you to become her,” Léan hissed. “I just—have you looked in a mirror lately?”

He hadn’t, actually, but he knew what she meant. Where it hadn’t thinned away, most of his dark hair had faded to gray and silver. His muscles were still strong, but they did not last as long in a fight. In fact, he could already feel them flagging. His brown eyes were a disconcerting kaleidoscope of black and gray flecks and his cheekbones protruded grotesquely over sunken cheeks.

The Blight had finally caught up with him. Even with Corypheus two years dead, the Calling in his head remained.

And it was very real.

After the fiasco at Adamant, they’d reported in to Weisshaupt. When that turned out to be an even bigger shitshow, they’d dipped again and found their way back to Skyhold, where the Inquisitor was clinging to desperate plans with the nails on her remaining hand.

And they’d been getting by, in their way. Until the Spymaster finally found the Hero. Until Mahariel came, with her Blight-cleansed veins and her cure.

He thought it might actually be a curse.

“I don’t need to,” he told Léan. “I know my face and I know myself. I changed—I found myself in the Wardens. Away from your blasted shadow. I won’t give that up for anything.”

A shriek tore guttural from Léan’s throat. “You’re going to die, Carver! For what? Your stupid pride? To make a point? You say you’ve changed, but all I see is the same idiot, hiding fear behind a shitload of brashness.”

She cracked her staff under his jaw and his head snapped back hard enough that stars danced across his vision. Anger surged in his limbs and he lunged out blindly. She easily caught the haphazard swipe with her staff and locked them at an impasse.

“You shouldn’t even have to make this decision, Carver,” she said, chest heaving. Confusion rippled through his brow. “You shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have ever been a Warden. It was—“

She looked away and he shoved at the opportunity. Their weapons separated but neither struck; Léan leaned on her staff like it was more support than the legs beneath her.

“My fault,” she whispered. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. It’s my fault. It’ll always be my fault.”

“What in blazes are you on about?”

“On the expedition, you idiot,” Léan snapped. “Where this all began!”

Carver faltered. The expedition? She was thinking that long ago?

“Just—“ she slid her hand down her staff, tracing the runes embedded in the metal grip. “I fucked up then. Let me fix it—let me save you now.”

His pride prickled, but a wave of understanding overcame it. An unerring sense of calm dampened the knee-jerk reaction he used to thrive on.

“Lea,” he asked, the suddenly curious gentleness catching his sister off guard, “have you—have you been carrying this for a decade?”

She just stared, each breath a ragged effort. “Who else could bear it? Who else would?”

“My fault,” she repeated. “Just like Beth—just like Mother. Just like everything in Kirkwall. Of course I’ve borne it—how could I forget?”

“Sister—“ Carver shook his head. The ghost of their mother lingered in the shadows of her mind, in the guilt that weighed on her soul, and he wished his words could change the narrative. “The Wardens saved me. I was as self-destructive and foolish as you always said. Without them, I’d be dead—or worse—by now.”

“You’ll be dead anyway, if you don’t listen to me!”

“This isn’t yours to fix!” he finally cried. He flung his arms wide, only just mindful of the path his blade carved. “You lost the right to fix anything when we parted in the Deep Roads. I thought—I thought you’d let it go, then.”

“You’re my brother.” Her voice cracked. “After everything we shared—the Maker Himself could not make me let you go.”

Carver shook his head. “You must. I won’t take it—I don’t want the cure.”

“Andraste’s bloody—why?”

“I made my peace with the Calling long ago, Lea. That’s why this—“ he thumped the griffon chest plate he wore “—means anything. Everything I’ve done with the Wardens, the people we helped, the changes we made—it mattered, because time was always limited. If I cheat that…what am I left with? What can I strive for?”

“For life! For yourself, for Merrill, for—for me.” Léan whispered the last of it, as though ashamed at including herself in the ask. She closed the space between them, her hands caging his face. Her thumbs dug into his cheeks. “You don’t have to live for purpose, you can live for people. For yourself.”

“No.” Carver shook his head. “You can live like that. I’m not you, Léan. I need the purpose.”

He threw his sword to the side so he could grasp her hands. He matched her bruising grip. “And—I made a promise. To the Order and her people. Relinquishing this burden…it’s breaking that promise. I won’t do that. You can’t make me.”

For one fragile moment, he thought she might agree. But then her gaze hardened and a wisp of electricity sparked over his knuckles. He jerked back, surprised. With her hands freed, Léan beat them against his chest. Her blows echoed off his armor and pounded up into his brain as she exhausted her anguish through her fists.

“Let me save you,” she sobbed, over and over. Carver grasped her wrists and shook his head.

“I’m not yours to save,” he said. “Maybe once, but not anymore. Let it go, Lea. Let me go.”

Shards of guilt and grief and despair clouded her eyes alongside the tears.

“I can’t.”

[cloudninetonine]

I shared this on the server but im also sharing it in here, enjoy the angst muajajjajjaj --------------------- Lily knew something was wrong when they found a new resting place in the catacombs, last time they were in this part of the kingdom it wasn't there, that zone was full of blighted of all types, always coming back, no mater how many time's the Umbral Knight, Siegrid or Silva killed them. They send a quick glance to the spirits, deciding that it was better to sit in the bench before continuing to the next room, because for some reason they felt something evil coming from there, something worse than any blighted they had to fight, including the Blighted Lord. After some minutes of being seated and watching their companions speak with each other, they decided to advance to the next area of the catacombs, hoping that they gut feeling was wrong. They felt the air escape from their lungs the moment they saw what or more correctly, who was awaiting for them in the room, they could recognize that blue scarf everywhere they go, their expression become one of horror once they really looked at the captain. His armor appeared to be fused to his skin, his tunic it looked like it has lost it's colors in some part's, in other's it was torn to pieces, with some part's of the cloth hanging, the worst part of it was his face, his hair had gone from that golden color to one that made it look like he had earth scattered all around it, his eyes where all black, with what look like blood around them. They noticed that Warrior's (or what was left of him) didn't realized they had entered the room, but that was short lived, because after they got close enough, they heard him mutter something that sounded like a name, seconds after he looked at their direction, letting a cry out (of anger or anguish? that will be forever a question on their mind) and launched himself with his sword to attack them. Lily, already knowing this was going to happen, let the headless defender out among other spirits, ready to fight the one that they once could consider a brother. ------------------------------------ They stood in front of the petrified body of the hero, it was a difficult battle, even more when it was revealed that he had a monster form, one that made him look like Silva and Siegrid in that form, but still looking like himself. They let a silent sob out, not wanting to attract the attention of their companions, before extending their hand, letting it rest in the forehead of Warriors, felling the blight starting to abandon his body, absorbing it and with it the last memory of the hero before they become this "monster". It showed him running, trying to escape from the rain and getting separated from the other hero's, it showed the speed of how the blight took over his body and it showed how he ended up in the catacombs, alone and with none of his brother's to help him.Once they came back to themselves, they heard him say something, this time being able to identify what he said. -Thanks, kiddo........ After that they realized that life left the petrified body, but they also felt a spirit joining them, looking at a side, they could see Warriors standing next to the Umbral Knight, he send them a little smile, but Lily could see that the other spirits didn't find him very funny after how he hurt them during they battle, sighing, they decided to just go back to the bench in the room before this one and rest.If they founded Warriors already consumed by the blight, they didn't want to imagine the states of the other members of the Chain. --------------------- (Cloud look, I am over the writing block, are you proud of me ? /j)

I'M VERY PROUD OF YOU SILVY I'M SO GLAD YOU GOT THROUGH IT!

AND YOU GOT MY DAMN FEELINGS, WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LET PEOPLE BE HAPPY SILVY!? /j

[late-nite-scholar]

TES Shiptober- Dream

I have no explanation for this. It just happened. Prompts by @hombrediablo

Wordcount- 830-ish

Warnings-language

Dagoth Ur x Nerevarine (who is not described, vaguely implied to be Dunmer)

made in picrew. description in alt text

***

It was the moment. The moment. The Nerevarine, walking down the path toward him. In the space of a few heartbeats, the fate of everything would be decided. 

“Welcome, Sweet Nerevar, to this place where destiny is made.” A practiced line. He’d had plenty of time to think about what to say when this all finally occurred. 

But the Nerevarine seemed much less impressed. They bared their teeth, snarling at him. “Don’t you fucking ‘Sweet Nerevar’ me! Not after you spent months teasing me!” 

This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. The outburst caught him off-guard, and he found himself answering more honestly than intended. “I am not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Nix shit you don’t!” Stabbing a multi-ringed finger at him, the Nerevarine glared daggers. “Months of dreams, Dagoth. Months. And I didn’t care that they went in that direction. Cool, cool, you and Nerevar were lovers, let’s do it up. But not once did you see things all the way through! You cut me off every single time!”

“I ended nothing before resolution. You were the one who left before the… climax of things, Sweet Nerevar. I was willing to overlook such a slight. Perhaps you did not feel ready. I do not hold a grudge for that. But to accuse me…”

“I didn’t end shit!” The Nerevarine shouted. 

“No, I did.” A new voice spoke, and they both froze. The third floated not far from the Nerevarine, putting on their best patient teacher look. Dagoth rolled his eyes behind his mask. 

“You are not supposed to be here at this time, Vivec,” Dagoth pointed out. 

“I thought perhaps I should set the record straight. Especially since this is not why this meeting is supposed to occur.”

“You’re the one that’s been cockblocking me all this time?” The Nerevarine launched themselves at Vivec, knocking them both to the ground. Dagoth watched for a few moments, as they cussed and swore. Then they were shaking Vehk, slapping him until the flame that wreathed his head went out. Vehk seemed too bewildered to do anything in response, cowering back from the angry hero. 

Eventually, after standing awkwardly for a few moments, Dagoth felt compelled to do something. He gently pulled the Nerevarine away from Vivec. 

“I think he understands. You don’t have to keep going.” 

Tears ran from the crimson eyes of the Nerevarine as they shouted one last time, “I trusted you! But you were just going to treat me like you treated him! You told me you didn’t know what was going on!”

“Nerevarine, please…”

“I don’t ever want to see you again, Vivec. I know what happened last time, and I don’t trust you anymore.”

He disappeared again, and Dagoth watched the spot for a moment before asking, “What happens now, Nerevarine? Our meeting has been interrupted most rudely.”

The Nerevarine moved closer, looking up at him as their hand reached up to rest on his chest. “I would like, now that we no longer have any interruptions, to finish what we started so many times before. If you wish to as well, Voryn?” 

As the Nerevarine spoke his given name, Dagoth knew he would not refuse.  

***

“I don’t understand, gahata…” The child (though not for much longer) crossed their arms at their grandfather. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“But I remember it! The Blights lifted, the Dreamers returned. Those who had been afflicted also returned, cured. Sometime later the Nerevarine descended from the mountain, dressed in the colors and sigils of the Sixth House and with the Sharmat on their arm. They told us they were leaving for a honeymoon in Akavir and we haven’t seen or heard from them even two hundred years later. I was youngin’, but that kind of thing stays with someone their whole life.”

“The Temples don’t say that’s what happened.”

“You think the Temples are going to spread a story like that? No boy, they needed something cleaner, something palatable. So they have their version. Not that it really matters, it all got sorted in the end, didn’t it?” 

As the child left, the grandfather retreated to a back room in the house, carrying two mugs of tea. He gave one to a hooded figure, huddled on a pallet bed. The figure’s shoulders shook with the ghost of a laugh as a red eye and a gold eye reflected from inside the hood.  

“Thank you. You know they’ll never believe you, young man? The story is too far-fetched, even for the truth.”

“But I still have to try, M’Lord. And I’m no young man anymore.”

“Indeed. And I have almost finished fading. I’ve been without my power so long I’ve forgotten it. It’s almost time. Perhaps we will go together.”

“Well, M’Lord, I’d be quite honored if it came to that. After takin’ you in and getting to know you all these years.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

The two old men drank their tea in silence after that, lost in their thoughts.       

[linzerj]

Y'all I did not expect over 100 people to be interested in this idea somehow, but hi hello! I promise I am actually working on a fic for this, it just takes me forever to write - especially when I accidentally start at the end, then the beginning, then have to fill in the middle hghghghghg. Anyway, just for all of you, here is a snippet from the middle of the fic - so like. Spoiler warning? but its the first thing I wrote for this and I like it a lot and want to share it. So enjoy!

---

Teba watches Tulin continue to grow, watches him improve in his training and progress his skills – both with the bow, and with the winds. He and Harth go over the intricacies of the Great Eagle Bow, so that they can recreate it again should it ever break. He visits and is visited by Riju and Yunobo and Sidon, at least as often as four people with so many responsibilities can escape from their duties for something as trivial as catching up with friends. He settles into the routine of day-to-day life again.

And then, one day, the world shifts.

The first alert any of them have to something being wrong is the way Vah Medoh suddenly halts in her normal holding pattern above Rito Village, locks onto the castle, and lets out a screech as loud as she once did when the Blights had infected the Beasts.

The sounds makes everyone in the Village flinch from the memory, and Teba is calling for everyone to “stay here!” and launching himself from Revali’s Landing in a burst of Gale before he’s even fully aware of what he’s doing. All he can think is not again, please, not again –

He lands atop Medoh, who is still glowing that soft safe blue and showing no signs of infection - no flecks of Malice, no Blight manifesting before him, nothing. That matter settled, he looks out to the horizon beyond the Divine Beast, to see what could have caused Medoh to act in such a way, and thus he witnesses the chaos taking part across Hyrule.

Hyrule Castle is lifting into the sky, waves of what appear to be Malice (but is actually now called Gloom, not that he knows this right now) helping to hold it aloft. He can also see yawning pits cracking open in the earth, swirling with the same dark magic surrounding the castle once again.

Medoh cries out once more, and as she opens their connection to let Teba hear what she hears, he looks across the region and sees.

Vah Naboris falls from Spectacle Rock. Vah Rudania tumbles into the maw of Death Mountain. Vah Ruta sinks beneath the waves of what he’d thought was just a shallow reservoir lake upon an unnamed mountain in Lanayru.

And in the back of his head, thanks to his connection to Vah Medoh, Teba can hear the calls for help as the three other Divine Beasts fall.

. . . – – – . . .

“S.O.S.” – Save Our Souls.

A signal Revali had taught him, in the time-that-wasn’t, just in case he ever needed it – just in case. (He’d hoped he never would need it, never have to hear it. He wonders if this is the last thing the Champions of this time heard – their peers calling for help, none of them able to respond, all of them succumbing to Ganon and his Blights.)

As the clouds above Hebra begin to swirl with anger and the first snowflakes begin to fall, Teba stands on the back of the last Divine Beast, and tries not to be sick, tries not to wonder about all the why’s and how’s and what if’s, tries not to let out his own mournful cry as Vah Medoh does when the S.O.S signals finally fade into oblivion. (He doesn’t succeed on that last part.)

Just getting this idea out there so that maybe I'll actually finish writing it one day, but -

I've been on a Legend of Zelda kick recently. Currently replaying BOTW. Never played AOC but I've watched gameplay and all the cutscenes so I know what happens. Planning to play that and TOTK again soon. But I've got this idea cooking in my head.

Theres a post that talks about "what if you could find the Divine Beasts in the Depths", and another funny post that was just "what if Teba was the sage of Wind and not Tulin?" And I remembered when BOTW had just come out, and then AOC after, and people were speculating about the characters, like Teba, being the New Champions and getting to bond to the Divine Beasts.

That didn't happen in canon, but. Hear me out. What if even just one of the Divine Beasts bonded with a New Champion... like say, the one who doesn't become a Sage?

Teba, Sidon, Riju, and Yunobo return from their adventure in the past/alternate timeline/whatever, having saved those Champions and that Hyrule from destruction. Their own timeline is still the same, but they continue on as they do in canon.

Except they all meet up shortly after returning home, and one of them (Sidon or Riju maybe) asks "hey did anyone else try going to the Divine Beasts only to get rejected" and while the rest are like "yup wonder what that's about, sad" Teba is like "no wtf are you all talking about I was settling back in with my wife and kid."

But something about it sticks with Teba. He goes home, looks up at Vah Medoh, and thinks, 'it probably won't work but I may as well try just to confirm.'

...Vah Medoh accepts him as its new pilot.

I'm unsure as to whether or not Revali's spirit will still be there for a quick hello - but if he is, he'd be like "whomst?!" And Teba would be like "if you were still alive I'd definitely adopt you because thanks to some time travel shenanigans i know that you desperately needed a parental figure in your life".

Mostly everything else proceeds as is canon up to the start of TOTK - except for the other Divine Beasts continuing to chill at their resting places, because upon hearing about Teba successfully bonding with Medoh, the others want to keep trying.

But, for whatever reason, Hylia decided that you cannot be both a Sage and a Divine Beast pilot, so the Beasts acknowledge them but never quite accept them as their pilots.

Then, TOTK. Then the chasms. Then, the other 3 Divine Beasts taking a plunge into the Depths.

Teba freaks out a little bit, but Medoh is circling Rito Village and is fine, except now there's these random floating islands but also a fuckass blizzard that's making it almost impossible to keep everyone fed, and Teba's just been saddled with Elder status so he's super in charge and Tulin is in a bit of a "I can do anything let me prove it let's go" phase and is trying to convince Teba to use Vah Medoh to fly up and stop the blizzard, but Teba is way too busy trying to keep the village from falling apart to go right now -

Then Link shows up, and Tulin runs off, and Link follows him, and the two go up and find the Stormwind Ark and fight Colgera and as the magical blizzard finally ends, Teba is just like "what the fuck".

Tulin tells him he's become a Sage, and isn't that cool dad?! And Teba is like "you're 12 and you're going to help fight a demon king?!?! Wtf?!"

But then at some point, Tulin (who knows the other Sages from that time he was in AOC, and meeting them a few times with his dad after) one day looks up from his breakfast and says "oh hey Sidon just became the Sage of Water! I saw it through my connection with Link!" And that's when it clicks into place for Teba why the Beasts never quite accepted the other "New Champions" - because they were destined for something else.

But Vah Medoh is still here. And it's pissed that it's fellow Beasts are gone and it also wants to blast Ganondorf in the face.

Unfortunately, Teba can't let it blast the castle when Link and co go to confront the Zelda illusion, because Tulin is there, Link is there, Sidon and Riju and Yunobo are there, and it's not the real demon king yet anyway.

Teba is grumpy about it, about letting Tulin go off and risk his life when he's a child and Teba is an adult, but then a huge dark dragon explodes out from the chasm below the castle and Vah Medoh is all too happy to fire upon it, knowing it's Ganondorf and wanting some sweet revenge of its own.

Teba's just surprised he can see the dark dragon, it's huge but he'd heard tales of only the young, or those chosen by thr goddesses, could see dragons. Maybe it's because of Vah Medoh that he can see this one, and the little light dragon that comes in and - hey is that Link?!

Maybe it ends with Teba going down to the Depths with Link to visit the other Divine Beasts, and suggesting that the locations stay known so that future generations may try to awaken them. They don't really need the Beasts anymore since both Calamity Ganon and Ganondorf have been defeated, but Medoh doesn't want to turn off and is happy just chilling at Rito Village with Teba. The end.

I have like 2.5k of this already written, I just wanted to use this post to write more of the ideas for the fic structure before I go to bed lol. And this idea probably doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense canon-wise, but it doesn't need to because the only reason this exists is because i love Teba and wish he'd gotten more screntime (or at least some spoken dialogue in the cutscenes!) in TOTK.

[thoughtsofananon]

Dadrius Week Day 1- Shopping

(takes place right before COTH) @sergeantsporks

“Uh, boys?” Mr Porter knocked on Gus’s door, sounding nervous. “There’s. . someone here to see you.

Gus shrugged at Hunter and they headed down.

Gus gasped.

Is that Darius?! The head of the Abomination Coven?! Why is he- oh no no no he’s here for Hunter!

“Get away from here!”

Gus launched himself forward, but was unable to get even a weak punch in due to the fact that Darius had used his. . Abomination hair? To grab Gus around the waist and hang him upside down out of reach.

“None of that is needed.” Darius sighed, giving Gus a look. “I’m not here to take your friend. Well- I am, but not to where you think.” He leaned in closer, which just increased that feeling- the one where he was sure his teachers were disappointed in him, he’d failed a test, or something that always made him want to cry. 

“Are you going to let me take him for a walk that goes nowhere near the Emperor's Coven?”

Gus swallowed back the choked feeling. “Yes sir.” He mumbled. Darius set him down without another word.

“Come with me, Hunter.” Hunter looked nervous as he shut the door. 

Gus’s dad hugged him. “He’ll be okay.” He reassured. Gus nodded.

- - - - - - - - - -

Hunter glanced nervously at Darius. Why’d I tell him about the Grimwalker thing?? He thought regretfully. He was being really stupid, everything had just burst out of him back in the woods. Hunter swallowed.

“Where are. . we going?” He questioned.

Darius sighed. Oh no he’s going to talk about the thing.

“You’re still wearing that stuff when you lived in Hexside’s broken auditorium.” He pointed a finger at Hunter’s ragged outfit, “You need something else to wear.”

Hunter felt his ears go bad. “‘M sorry.” He mumbled. Then swallowed. “S-sorry about the mumbling, sir. A-and the- the st-stutter.”

“Don’t apologize.” Darius said, walking on.

Oh. . okay. .

Darius led him into a store, blocking him from the owner’s view as they walked past.

“Come on,” Was Hunter seeing things, or was that a smile on the intimidating, commanding, proud coven leader’s face? “Let’s get you something to wear.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“See, I told you I’d bring him back fine.” Darius opened the Porter’s door and let out a surprising chuckle at Gus’s squeal of excitement and jumping up to hug Hunter. 

“You look so gooood!” He squeaked happily. Hunter blushed and put his hand to his mouth.

“It’s not much.” He mumbled. “It’s just, like, a shirt and pants.” He raised his voice. “Sorry about the mumbling.” Gus waved a hand.

“Don’t. And You look amazing.”

Before Gus could drag Hunter away, Darius grabbed him and asked to have one last word.

“The Blight Girl is stuck at her parents house.” Darius said. “I want you to help your friends get her out. I know the Day of Unity is in two days, but. . . her father built the abomitrons that will be surrounding the Day of Unity. You and your friends may be. . able to convince her father to shut down the abomitrons.” He shrugged. “Or maybe not. And it would take three miracles to convince the mother. I want you to protect Luz and your friends on this mission.”

Hunter blinked and straightened his back. “Yes Head Witch.” He said. “I will.”

Darius nodded, a look Hunter didn’t recognize in his expression, which was usually an impenetrable mask of boredom and indifference.

Darius turned to leave.

“Thank you.” Hunter blurted. “For the. Getting stuff for me.” 

Darius looked surprised. “It’s not a problem, Little Prince.” He answered finally.

“Not a problem at all.”

[queerspacepunk]

“I accidentally punched a Templar. A few times. At least ten.” for fenris/anders?

this was fun!! (thank you to everyone sending prompts through and I'm sorry if you sent yours ages ago and i haven't gotten to it yet. the muse is a sneaky little shit.

So, You Accidentally Punched a Templar, Now What? - Fenris/Anders for @dadrunkwriting

potatowitch Aug 21 - “I accidentally punched a Templar. A few times. At least ten.” for fenris/anders?

Hawke calls as Anders is unlocking the door. He should, probably, let it ring out and call Hawke back all of the few minutes later it’ll take him to get inside and get the door secured behind him, but he there’s been enough close calls in his past to make this a habit he’s not entirely ready breaking.

“Hey,” he says, voice probably muffled as he pins the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he attempts to wrestle the door shut without dropping his keys, bag or phone.

“Hi,” Hawke says and it’s almost sweet that he’s trying to sound casual, “have you seen Fenris?”

“Not since the other night at Varric’s,” finally getting the door shut, and frowning, “why, did something- Maker fuck!”

Anders manages to drop his keys, bag, and phone, and in a sense, himself as he startles, tripping over his own feet. He grabs at the phone, Hawke’s indistinct but alarmed voice squeaking from it, and finds it mercifully unbroken.

“Found him,” Anders says, just a touch breathless.

“Is he okay?”

“Well enough to break into my bloody house,” Anders grumbles, buying himself a second for his eyes to adjust enough to the dim light to get a proper look at him. He’s not so much skulking in the shadows as he is propping himself up on the wall.

“How did you make it in here, anyway?” Anders asks, carefully, intentionally.

Hawke gets it, “I’ll come over.”

--

It takes Hawke all of ten minutes to get there, with his shortcuts, which gives Anders just enough time to establish that Fenris isn’t going to bleed all over the couch, move him to said couch, and fetch his cart of illegal and misappropriated medical supplies out from the closet.

He doesn’t need an ambulance, which is good, given that his presence here suggests that the local hospital isn’t really an option.

“Any insides on the outside?” he asks, sitting back on his heels.

“Blood,” Fenris says, gesturing half-heartedly at his face. His nose was clearly bleeding at some point and there’s a cut on one cheekbone, under a rapidly bruising eye.

He’s made it through a concussion screen (yes, probably) when he hears Hawke’s quiet rap on the door, and Anders gets up to let him in. He and Hawke have a brief, silent conversation in the hallway, composed mostly of facial expressions before leading him through.

None of them live a life where they can be entirely shocked by violence, and Hawke had obviously had some idea that Fenris was in trouble, but he still hisses when he sees him.

“So,” Hawke says, perching on a foot stool, “what happened?”

Fenris makes an attempt at staring Hawke down, but Hawke’s already settled into that casual ‘I could wait all day’ vibe that’s always made Anders think he’d be a surprisingly good teacher.

“I may have accidentally punched a templar.”

Anders chokes, “excuse me?”

“A few times.”

“Fenris!”

“At least ten times, I wasn’t counting.”

Anders turns, eyes wide to give Hawke A Look, and then back at Fenris, and then to Hawke again. Fenris has made a lot of progress the last few years, true, but there’s a lot of distance between ‘not turning Anders in the templars’ and punching one.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he’s had a fuck of a long day, and couldn’t even make it in the door without a brief stint of thinking he was in a blighted horror movie, and now Fenris is telling him he punched a templar. Repeatedly. There’s no stopping the snort coming out of his nose.

He wants to hire an artist to paint a giant mural of it on his wall.

“Did you uh, punch them, or punch them?” he asks.

Fenris raises an eyebrow at him only to end up wincing.

“I think what he’s asking,” Hawke clarifies, “is whether or not you fisted someone?”

Fenris’ ears twitch, and he gives Hawke an utterly scandalised look.

“Now, now,” Anders cuts in, “given it’s done safely and consensually, and with enough lube, there’s nothing wrong with a little sexual fisting.”

He gives Fenris a wink, just to wind him up, but the look Fenris turns on him is considering. Anders stores that away for later.

“Regular punching,” he admits finally, which isn’t as fun, but does make it less likely that a full on investigation is going to be launched.

“Wait,” Anders says, sobering, “you punched a templar, and then came here? You do realise they know who I am? The only reason they’re not on my doorstep as it is is luck, and all that bribery and corruption that Varric’s ‘not doing’.”

“I wasn’t followed,” Fenris says, halfway between petulance and apology.

“I’ll call Carver,” Hawke says, standing up and laying one steadying hand on Anders’ shoulder, “I didn’t see anyone on my way over but I’ll check with him in case.”

“Hawke, no,” Anders says, “you don’t need to-”

“No.” Hawke says, cutting him off, “if he’s going to insist on this ‘changing things from the inside’ bullshit, he’s going to have to walk the talk.”

He wanders off to the kitchen before Anders has a chance to argue any further. He’ll feel bad about it, sure, but he will feel better to know the templars aren’t about to break down his door. And if they are, well, a head start’s always nice.

“Next question,” he says, turning back to Fenris, “what exactly inspired you to punch a templar.”

Fenris looks like he’s not going to answer for a moment, but he sighs, and does, “I overhe-” he tries again, “They were behaving in an unacceptable manner. I tried to tell them they were out of line and things... escalated.”

Templars are always out of line, anyone can see that. Fenris has seen that, plenty of times, it must have been something serious, he must have heard something serious for it to elicit this.

He catches Fenris’ eye, and then looks toward where Hawke is in the kitchen, and drops his voice, “was it to do with Bethany?”

Fenris shakes his head.

“Seriously, Fenris,” Anders hisses, heart suddenly racing, “you have to tell us. If they were talking about Bethany and then you roughed them up- we need to let Hawke know, you don’t know what the Circle’s like, she’ll be in danger.”

“Mage,” Fenris says, and it’s only when his hand reaches out to catch Anders’ forearm that he realises he’s halfway to getting up, “it wasn’t about Bethany.”

“I-” Anders sinks back down, frowning. “wait, you- you punched a templar, upward of ten times-”

“It was two templars actually.”

“Two templars. Does that mean it was five each or?”

“Like I said, I lost count.”

“You punched two templars, many times, over...”

“Yes.” Fenris says, swallowing thickly, “they don’t know that that’s why, I think, I just said I took issue in general.”

Anders really, really doesn’t know how to process that, but he does know that he doesn’t hate it. Not really. Not at all.

“You know,” he says, because Fenris is starting to look distinctly uncomfortable, “I think that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Fenris splutters, “that’s not! It wasn’t- I don’t- not in that way.”

Anders grins, “I think you do though, I really think you do.”

[lorelylantana]

Spontaneous Chapter 4: Hateno

First-Previous-Next

Chapter rating: G Overall rating: T

Link insisted they head to Hateno the next morning. Apparently, the village had made a name for itself selling textiles in the last hundred years. Despite her insistence that her dress was sufficient for the time being, Link was adamant that they at least buy her shoes, which she couldn’t reasonably argue.

They didn’t cut through the plain, despite Link being more than capable of handling the monsters the stable folk warned them about. They kept to the road that circled broadly around the ruins instead. After her blackout yesterday, Link seemed wary of her emotional state, riding behind her so he could hold Zelda close and steer Epona for him. She leaned against him, keeping her eyes trained on the clouds rolling lazily across the sky in a desperate attempt to soak in the calm of the early morning. She could feel his chest rise against her back, and counting each heartbeat kept the rising tide of fear at bay until they finally passed through the fort. Still, she couldn’t banish the feeling of putting him out once again. It was the third day since her captivity ended and she already felt like more trouble than she was worth.

She kept trying to look at things from Link’s perspective. If she had exhausted herself cleansing the blight from the land, the last thing she’d want to do is play nanny to a shadow of a princess. That didn’t stop Link from humming to himself as hopped off the horse to run this way and that, shooting up cliffs before launching off them as soon as he got what he was after. She still needed to get used to watching do that, because her heart always skipped a nervous beat whenever he leapt into the open air. 

Keeping him in her sights helped to ease the last echoes of anxiety that came from crossing the field. Zelda’s hands were shaking, but her breath was steady, a vast improvement to the day before. Maybe she was better, but the idea was laughable. Joy was impossible in a world where sunshine felt like the heat of Ganon’s hatred. All Zelda felt capable of was grasping onto slices of reprieve amidst wave after unending wave of grief and guilt and sorrow. More likely it was the gentle wind passing through the trees, sliding against her skin in a chilled caress gentle enough to banish the echoes of the bright, burning  hiss of malice.

The afternoon was easier. The sky had become overcast while Zelda waited for Link to return from registering the Hateno Tower. They settled for lunch further down the road, although they ended up hiding behind a large rock to keep out of sight of the monster encampment just down the way.

Zelda ate out of habit more than anything. What was she supposed to do now? Her plan to rely on Impa’s guidance went up in flames. How could Zelda dare ask for help when she couldn’t look her in the eye. But that meant she had nowhere to go. Hyrule castle was in ruins, she couldn’t bear to set foot in Kakariko without invoking disappointment, and she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself in the wild like Link was. Even as she sat helpless and despondent, Link was up and moving, already collecting firewood for them by cutting down a nearby tree. 

Where Zelda was stagnant and lifeless he was limitless vibrant, pounding away at the fallen log, slashing at the wood as he would any adversary. It didn’t look right to Zelda, but she’d never chopped wood, so she didn’t know why he needed to stand on the fallen trunk. If she tried to strike out on her own, she wouldn’t even know where to start.

The log launched into the air, taking Link with it.

Zelda shrieked, running around to the side just in time to see her trusted night crash into the monster outpost in a chorus of shrieks and a resounding crack as the wood splintered. Zelda rushed closer before stopping. She turned away. There was only so much chaos she could take in a few seconds.

Link returned to her with a spring in his step, arms laden with his spoils before tucking them into his pouch. He helped her back on the horse, even though she hadn't asked him to, and they continued down the road. 

They reached the archway marking the border of Hateno Village only half an hour later. A man eyed them warily as they passed, but said nothing. The bustle of the town was subtle, but off putting after the serenity of the wild. Link must have sensed her anxiety, because he didn’t comment when she veered off the main road up the branching path, past the strange houses, and across the bridge.

There were three men sitting around the cookfire eating their lunch. Link struck up a conversation with them, asking if there was an inn nearby, but Zelda paid them no mind, sliding off Epona and walking into the empty house.

It was a hollow shell of what it once was, though admittedly Zelda had only spent one night there. A small, wicked part of her wanted to laugh at the irony that the house was stripped of its memories, just as her knight was. Still, standing in this void instilled a sense of longing in her, a sense of warmth she had been missing. Maybe it was the solitary, happy memory she had here. Maybe she just liked the idea of a home, especially one that had been forgotten. Zelda couldn’t think of a bigger contrast to Hyrule Castle, the sprawling bastion that cast its shadow across the horizon. Nothing was more appealing than being tucked away, out of sight and out of mind.

Link hovered over her shoulder, worried but seeing no reason to be.

“You brought me here once,” she murmured, musing aloud more than conversing with him, who’d frozen when she spoke. “One hundred years ago. You wanted me to meet your mother.” 

Zelda was lost for a moment, taken back to that evening. That last shred of peace before she was swallowed by the consequences of her own failures. Link had exaggerated the trip’s length to the King so they had an extra day before heading up to the Spring of Wisdom. It was one of the warmest memories she had, sitting in the cozy home while Link placed a slice of cake in front of her. It was such a contrast to the restrained, chilled dinner parties held on her other birthday’s that she was brought to tears. She ached at the shadow of Link’s arms around her shoulders as she took her first bite.

“I never wanted to leave,” she whispered, though perhaps it was too quiet for him to hear above the rhythmic hammers pounding away at the house’s walls, because when she turned around he was gone. She stayed a moment longer, indulging in a bit of nostalgia before returning to the fractured present of her own destruction. Sighing as she walked through the empty doorframe and back out into the early afternoon. The men had gone, and Link took her by the hand and walked with her back towards the town proper. She wanted to walk, but Link didn’t like the idea of Zelda walking on a main road barefoot when the wounds on her feet were still open. After the fuss she made when they first reunited she could hardly argue, so she rode the horse to the store, no matter how silly she felt at the short distance. They spent the remainder of the afternoon finally buying a set of clothes for Zelda. She insisted on a dress since it was cheaper and Zelda left the store dressed in a light green. It must have looked nice on her, because Link blushed a bit when she came out of the little room to the side. There was a flutter in her stomach when he took her hand again. 

She expected him to lead her further into the town, where the communal cookpots and inn were, but instead they walked back to the little house.

A door had been fitted into the empty frame, which was strange. Zelda had assumed the house was slated for destruction based on the large hammers still leaning against its walls, but she supposed it was just as likely that they were hired to repair it.

They ate dinner under the tree by the house in an unusually calm end to the day. The breeze rustling the leaves ushering the last of sunlight from the sky.

“I bought the house.” 

Zelda looked to Link, who was smiling at her with a bashful tilt of his head.

“You- What?”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, “Well, kind of. I put a deposit down for it using the spare wood from that monster outpost, I’ll have to pay it off later, but Bolson said we could stay in it in the meantime.”

Zelda was speechless, but stood up nonetheless, walking toward the door and entering the house. Very little had changed, but the door added a sense of exclusivity, a privacy that Zelda didn’t know to cherish. Something within her settled as the door closed, and she breathed a little easier. Link put a hand on her back, gently urging her to go up the stairs, where a bed waited for her.

She collapsed onto the bed and closed her eyes. She vaguely acknowledged Link taking her feet in his lap to replace the bandages, but she fell asleep before he finished

At last, Zelda was home.

[ammyandissunbesties4lyfe]

you have no idea how long i have been waiting for someone to say this

BASICALLY issun disability theory is the idea that issuns character and plot is an apt metaphor for disability, in that he is wandering trying to find a purpose in a world that is, physically, not made for him. there are a few elements to this and truly idk if i'm in the right headspace to lay them out clearly enough, but:

- consistently misunderstood and belittled by humans. the bug jokes are silly and funny, but also it's clear that they're straight up wrong when ammy first uses the mallet in the emperor's garden. however, even before this, if you look closely you see his silhouette has always been that of a little dude. what's interesting to me is when waka, at the entrance to the moon cave, jokes that issun "doesn't count [as an individual]" since he was able to pass through with ammy (as only one other besides the sacrifice was meant to go through). i believe that waka just liked getting under his skin, but it's a wild moment considering waka is one of the few people aware of poncles as a species. i also think, aside from pure plot reasons, one reason issun likes sticking with ammy is because they're both oddballs, where ammy is a powerful goddess who is underestimated because she appears as a simple white wolf to all others. he takes on the act of being her not-so-accurate translator and fills silence that he technically doesn't need to. she doesn't actually need to communicate to prove herself, but i believe he becomes her proxy and is so talkative and hotheaded as a way to try and bridge a social gap, like he is constantly trying to prove his intelligence and substance.

- when using the lucky mallet, issun consistently remarks that now ammy sees what he has to deal with —and yes! it's funny, it's charming, it's good gameplay, but also it's very true that from a narrative perspective we now understand that issun literally sees and interacts with the world differently to how we have been seeing it this whole time, and has to consider dangers that would never cross most minds. at the same time, being on his level helps the player to see his actual abilities. before, when drawing his sword, it would be kind of a goofy "little thing swishing a needle around" look, but when magnified, he cuts a whole different figure. using him to open chests shows how he can launch himself and move swiftly, and when he picks a fight with blight he looks a lot more confident and capable drawing his sword (despite probably being outmatched, and ammy pulling him back). forgive me for not having a perfectly clear memory of the later parts of the game, but i believe this gives more credibility and weight to moments like issun being the one who is capable of opening the spirit gate, for instance.

- his relationship to ishaku speaks more to familial pressures and stuff, but in general i believe him stealing ishaku's drawing and running away was an effort to gain more agency. it's not as clear as the rest of these points but i do think there is a level of desperation for agency and freedom from a secluded life that supports viewing issun's plotline as a disability narrative. multiple things can be true at once: he was overworked, he ran from his calling and destiny, he disappointed his grandfather, his grandfather was too rough on him, he is a talented artist — i think a great part of his story is the weight that ammy's time in ponc'tan gives to issun's initial decision to stick with her to learn the brush techniques. he could have run away and wandered and not painted at all, but the reality is that he is an artist and he is good at it, but needed his own space to develop. anyway, i'm straying from my point, but whatever. there's a lot of weight in the simple decision to move away from physical familiarity and safety into a world of the unknown specifically to pursue something that he likes doing on his own terms.

- i need to actually read about this more, but there's good basis in general for stories around the world of very tiny folk as vessels for exploring and accepting physical differences. i also know that at least in one major version of the original Issun-bōshi story, the parents (who were full-sized people) were disturbed by him and thought he was a monster — relevant to ableism and how many disabilities, esp visible physical ones, are viewed as some type of horror when they are just people's bodies

- kind of something about how issun is the secondary protagonist and has been this whole time, but at the start it's easy to assume that he's only some annoying navi-esque companion character with the added pervert trait (which 2b clear i dont like)

- insert joke about ammy as his service dog. i really do think it's more mutual actually like i think over time issun gradually accept the weight of what she is doing and helps communicate as best he can, and she in turn is a very fast ride and also literally lifts him up so that he doesn't have to worry about getting squashed 24/7 also theres the whole "you're my celestial envoy and you chose that yourself without even knowing but i'm not going to accept anyone else #destiny #besties" thing. ammy understands and helps him, which is just a whole huge thing on its own, that mutual understanding despite having vastly different lives, capabilities, and experiences.

ummmmm that's all..basically it's just that. issun is an important person in a world that he has to navigate uniquely and that tried to pay him little attention. and that feels at least somewhat like a narrative of disability to me

got to the emperors palace so now im naturally having an issun disability theory moment. this will wane as i get more involved w the rest of the ryoshima coast/oni island arc but i just knoww im gonna go CRAZY when i get to kamui

[enigma-im]

A Kiss To Build a Dream On

Rating: Explicit Relationship: Monster Boss x F!Worker Warnings: Blood mention, Violence, fluff, confusion of intention, gang boss, ladies go crazy for a sharp dressed man, cursing, sex, teleporting to avoid explaining

word Count: 7885

Tender isn’t a word anyone would use to describe the boss, but for her he can’t be anything but.

--------------------------------------

I roughly slam the door, grumbling to myself as I stomp towards the backrooms of the office. My fists stay firmly clenched at my sides as fire burns from within my chest. The bruises ache along my face, my cheek and eye throbbing with every beat of my heart. I shoulder check workers at I storm to my bunk at the end of the hall, not even bothering to deal with anyone's teasing today.

The door is in sight, the sweet relief of solitude isn’t enough to stifle the anger. Knowing I'm going in there to lick my wounds like some child or weakling. When I reach the peaceful silence of my own room I begin angrily wrestling off my clothes, tossing the lightly blood-splattered garments to the corner. Grabbing some clothes off the floor I march into the bathroom. Throwing on some baggy pants and a tank top, I look in the mirror.

For the first time this day, my anger steps aside. The sight of my swelling eye and split cheek is shocking. I've been hit before, it's not really new, but it's never been so startling. My cheek wound has bled enough to dribble down to my collar. The line of blood ends where my shirt was, no doubt the clothing is sporting a lovely red spot. I guess that's what happens when someone plays cheap with a jewelry covered punch. The rage boils once more till I spit in the sink.

I can't bring myself to look any longer. Rushing out into the main room I grumble once more. A tantrum in the making, I throw my fists around, I bare my teeth towards the floor, I kick at anything decorating the ground. Clothes get pushed around the room, thunking against the wall. A suitcase gets launched under the bed and a wall is hit for good measures.

As I seethe to myself I catch movement out the corner of my eye. I go stalk still, turning slowly to the poor soul who decided it would be a good time to check-in. A well dress man is inspecting a wrecked shirt, the same shirt I wore minutes before. He admires the bloodstain near the neckline, thumbing the spot with a lax face.

"Sir," I play my best pleasant voice," now is not a good time." it all comes out terse and strained but it's the best I can do. Boss hums, still looking at my shirt. It takes a few seconds before he bothers looking my way. His dark complexation almost shadows the flex of his brow when he catches sight of my beaten self. His quickly flexing jaw is just barely noticeable in the darkness of the corner.

"So it would seem," he answers smoothly. He tosses the shirt to the side without care, adjusting his hat before he steps further into the room. His intrusion is unwelcome, to say the least, and him stepping closer boils my blood even more.

"Sir," I growl," It's really not a good time." typical boss continues to ignore me, succeeding like he always does when we talk in making me grind my teeth to dust. He hums in answer again, walking till he is a few feet in front of me. His hands are clasped behind his back, his brow low as he regards me.

"I will ask this once," he starts," what happened?"

I sneer, immediately answering," Nothing, everything is fine." he responds with a tilt of his head, watching me with an almost amused look. We stare each other down, stubbornness helping me with this battle. The boss has a tendency in sticking his nose in other people's business. Which is fine for everyone else, a good trait to have a boss who takes care of his people, but it’s not fine for me. I don't want his constant attention, sticking around to rub my nose in it. He never has to say anything, his judging look is enough to knock me down a peg.

As I stew in my thoughts he reaches out and grabs my jaw. His fingers dig into my skin, demanding absolute cooperation. I know better than to move, stiffening as I fight the urge to jerk away from his scrutiny. He leans down close, looking over the cuts, tilting my head this way and that.

"Rings or knuckles," he asks casually.

My jaw pops," Rings."

He hums," Howley boys or street wolves?"

I scoff," pixie chicks." he nods, dropping my jaw in favor of using his phone. The device appears in a blink, acting like it was always there. He clicks away at the phone lazily for a short moment before poofing it away as quickly as it appeared. Without a word, he grabs my shoulder and walks me into the bathroom. Too curious, I let him guide me to sit on the toilet. I sit and watch him work near the sink, opening the medicine cabinet.

"What are you doing," I ask, tilting forward to get a better look. Before I can get a look around the mirror he shuts it.

"You have no bandages," he scoffs. The tone sounds scolding like I'm some child being talked down by a parent. I quickly catch on to what's happening, I don't much care for it.

I stand," no, get out. I'd like to be alone now to tend to my ego and I don't need you here to yell about how dumb I am." before I could walk around him towards the beds he grabs me once more and twists me back to the bathroom.

"No, sit," he shoves me towards the toilet," I am tending to you now." my anger rolls in again like the second coming of a storm. I don't need his pity or favor, I can take care of myself.

"What does it matter? It's not like you care," I pout, stewing in rumbling fury. I don't bother to stand again, knowing his great power that rivals many. He is a supervillain in his own right, a blight on society but a hero to some. I can't see him as a bad person but I know the lengths he has gone to to be where he is. You gotta crack a few eggs, you know?

I don't notice him staring down at me, too busy glaring at the wall to notice. It's not till he grabs my jaw again do I bother to pay him any mind. When our eyes meet I am startled by his depth. His face demands attention at this moment, locking me in his stare. My feelings dissipate till only alarm is left. Reprimand feels like my likely outcome. No one talks to the boss this way. He is known for his kindness as well as his ire and ire is the side I'm most likely to meet.

The boss watches me, his eyes darting between my own as his jaw clicks. I can't lie and say I'm not worried at this moment, because I am. You never know what little things will set someone off, just like I don't know what level of pain I will be receiving. Perhaps a good talking to about respect, he likes to go on and on about that. Maybe an addition to my weekly chores, that's a fair punishment. I can't think straight with his breath ghosting over my face.

It's when I'm at my wit's end does he move, pulling my face towards his. He gently presses his lips to mine, closing his eyes as he does. I stare blankly at him, stock still under his soft lips. He doesn't pry for more, leaning back shortly after in favor of looking at me. I still look straight, startled by the outcome I could have never expected. He chuckles, smiling as he shakes his head. At the cute sound, I look to him, trying my best to gauge the situation better.

"wha-," he shuts my mouth before I can ask.

"You are to remain silent while I tend to you," he states firmly. I simply nod, still too shocked to really have the energy to do anything but listen. He watches me a moment more before standing and fiddling with the sink.

The boss does as he says, tending to my wounds like a close friend. He is delicate in his touches, warning me before any intentional pain. It's weird, no other way to say it. I have no idea what's happening besides the obvious. He is cleaning up my busted face, but I don't know why.

Once he is satisfied with his chore he straightens up and walks me out of the bathroom. I stop in the middle of the room, looking up to him for guidance. He quirks a brow, just barely smiling to himself.

"If I knew a silly little kiss would stifle your anger I would have done it sooner," he chuckles. I fluster at the comment, looking away for the first time since the kiss. As I chew on my cheek, trying to sort through the tangle of thoughts and feelings, he turns me towards him. His hold is sweet, gentle, unlike before. He pets at my cheek, lightly grazing the cut with his thumb. Before I can react he is gone.

I stare dumbfounded into the room, confused above anything else. I try to sort through the event, trying to find the angle he is working. So many things go through my head till absolutely nothing makes sense.

Though one thing is for sure. This warm feeling in my chest won't go away.

The boss doesn't act differently when I see him around the facility. He is his prim and proper self, still bullying the underlings into working to their best and intimidating visitors. Though its been mere days, I feel like more is to be expected. With every passing minute, hour, day, I expect something to happen. As time goes on the feeling grows till every sighting of him makes me tense with expectation. Was this his plan? To make me tense at every turn till I'm forced to confront him less I go crazy? Or was it to keep me on my toes, perhaps I've been too lax around here and he knows the best way to keep me stressed.

Either way, it's working.

I work the cameras one night, lounging in an old rickety chair as I watch the cameras around the building. This chore is the simplest but the most tedious. No one wants watcher duty, it's an all-night endeavor. Nothing happens and god forbid you get caught slacking off when higher-ups walk by. The punishments are easily dished out around here. So staying alert and awake is for the best.

As the night goes on I can feel myself falling off, drifting in and out of rest. It gets so bad that I fall asleep dreaming I'm still working. I try to pinch myself awake, walk around a bit, but nothing works. I damn near fall off my seat when a loud clinking noise wakes me. As I startle the seat tries to roll too far back but is stopped by a sturdy hand. I snap my head up and around, disoriented above anything else. Looking to my right my eyes immediately meet all too familiar ones.

"I wasn't sleeping," I quickly shout at the boss," I was watching the cameras." I stare wide-eyed at him, hearting pumping quickly from the startling wake-up.

The boss snorts," I'm sure you were."

"yes, I was," I clear my throat," what are you doing down here?" he watches me a moment longer, his arm still clasping the back of my chair. With an amused huff, he grabs something off the table, hiding it in his fist. He holds it over my lap, waiting on me. I reach out, curious, palm awaiting.

"a gift," he answers as he drops shiny pieces into my hand. Three rings lay in my palm, all gold with obnoxiously large gems in the middle. I look at them confused, lifting one to investigate.

"what are," I look up towards the boss, the words dying off my lip. He is gone. Looking around the room for another second before I look down at the rings. The single one I'm holding looks well worn, some of the metal corroding away. The gem is annoyingly bright green with dirty specks. On closer look, I can see dried blood in the corners and grooves. The ring actually looks familiar, looking at it makes my cheek ache.

What is the boss doing with the pixie chick's ring?

I want to corner him, question his intentions with bringing the 'gifts'. It's unheard of for the boss to take souvenirs, he isn't a bragging kind of man. It's also strange for him to bring them to someone as a present. The message is clear, he hurt them for me. A man like him doesn't just give out something like this without earning it to begin with. He got those rings not with theft but other illegal means. I understand that much, what I don't get is why.

I try to hunt him down but he is always around the corner before I can get to him. Each time I swear I can see a little smile, teasing me with this weird little game of chase. Every night I go to bed without answers is like losing a battle I never wanted to have.

It's one night that the unanswered questions pick at me till my last strand of patience is frayed. I storm out of bed, throwing on a hoodie before I enter the public spaces of the compound. This late I have a guess where the boss is residing, well two guesses.

I try his quarters first, knocking first as I don't have a death wish. With no answer, I don't try to push my luck and head to his office. When I round the private hallway I see the light on, coming out from under the farthest door. I pull some last-second courage and storm down. I grab the handle and with a last confident breath, I open.

The scene before me freezes as all details sort in my brain. Two people in the room, one is obvious, the boss. The other is a worn man, bruised and beaten in a chair. I can't look away from the man as a strange fog covers his neck. A nasty gash in the center of the fog's attention, seeming to pour into the wound. The gash looks to be pulled in every direction, blood drenching the man's shirt. I know if his mouth wasn't gagged he would be screaming loud enough for the entire building to hear.

"What do you need," The boss steals my attention. I look from the tied-up man to the annoyance of the week. He doesn't look angry like I would assume, having heard horrid tales of others falling into this same mistake. I don't trust the casualness of him cleaning his hands with a dirty towel.

"Sorry, sir," I bow my head," I will meet with you when you aren't entertaining company." I offer the joke in hopes of lessening the ire he may release later. The boss snorts with a smile, shaking his head as he tosses the towel aside. Not waiting for an answer I slide back into the hall, closing the door quietly behind me.

Well, that went well enough.

In the morning I force myself to submit to this strangeness that has corrupted the boss and I's interactions. I've known of the man since I was in my mid-teens, I've worked for him since my early 20s. There is no way I truly know how the man acts in his day to day life. I know he is an ornery kind of man, though a little mischievous, and that’s the most I know of him. Perhaps this is normal. It's best not to harp on these things that are out of my control.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to ignore his presence in any room I enter. The cat and mouse game seems to have switched with me running from him. I feel like a coward, though it is a reasonable choice to just drop it. I never run from anyone, least of all some cocky villain type.

I go about my nightly routine in the bathroom, spitting into the sink before suckling water from my palm. Walking into the main room I pause looking at the well-dressed man in my room.

"Evening, sir," I say confused. At my introduction, he turns, keeping his arms clasped behind his back. He regards me with a small smirk, mostly keeping his feelings to himself.

"You wished to speak with me," he shrugs," here I am."

I nod," yea, it's not too important now, I sorted it out myself." it’s a lie, I have nothing figured out. His instances of manipulation have named him as conniving. I don't want to be the centerpiece in such affairs.

"hm," he clicks his tongue," shame. Leaving me so curious now, how could I depart with such a tempting question resting on the edge of my mind." his smirk forms into a Cheshire grin that brings thoughts into focus. It seems I've already captured his attention, perhaps have had it all along.

"No, no, it's not anything you would need to bother with," I try to wave him off. He doesn't budge, instead, taking a few steps closer. I step equally back. He huffs in amusement, pushing onward till I'm forced to stop against a bed. He crowds me, yet keeping a platonic distance.

"I'm insulted you assume that any of your worries would be below my standings, I wish to make your life easier whenever I can," he purrs, breaking the platonic distance," Did you like your gift?" my body tenses in alarm, feelings waring as I try to remain passive.

"T-the rings," I ask.

He nods," I don't think the Pixie Chicks will be missing them, they offered them so freely." I wish to scoff at him, nearly amused at his suggestion that they would offer him anything such as their jewelry.

"They didn't seem willing to part with them before," I somehow manage to tease back. His smile grows, tilting his head as he regards me.

"Not at first," he leans toward my cheek," but after a short visit they were more than willing."

I get fuzzy the closer he gets, feeling his hot breath brush over my face. It's hard to decide the right course of action. Push him away and deal with whatever reaction he deems appropriate, or let him be and see where this is going. The second choice is hard, his nearness muddles my ideas and actions. How could I be swayed by some man nearing my personal space? His kiss beforehand was quick and unintimidating, there was no build-up. Now it feels like an anvil swaying precariously on a snapping rope.

"Why are you here," I find myself asking. I fight the urge to raise my hand to his chest and push him away, not truly knowing if I would push him away. He leans in closer, crowding me nearly on the bed. I fall back onto a hand, holding myself propped up less I wish to lay on the sheets. His grin stretches wider.

"Well, you asked for me," he answers in a deep rumble. The change in tone is startling, fogging my brain more. It's hard to think, nothing is connecting in my brain. I want to push him, but I can't. I want to crawl away, but I can't. I want to pull him closer, but…

"I mean," I swallow," what are you doing in my room?"

"because you feel safest here," he answers.

"Why should it matter if I feel safe," I watch him. He straightens slightly, looking down at me with a lax stare.

"You ask too many questions," he mumbles before pushing forward and kissing me. I gasp, falling back onto both hands. The kiss breaks for just a moment before he is falling onto his hands, framing me as he crowds me on the bed. I'm not sure what to do now, having little to no experience in this. I'm not flirty or sexy, I can't bother with things such as making out or relationships. Though now I wish I knew just a little bit.

The boss grabs me by the hips and shifts me up the bed, crawling over me as I fall to my back. He straddles a thigh, his hands coming up to frame my head. I watch him stare down at me, his mouth lightly parts with a dazed look. Before I can bother with words he takes my lips for his once more. It's surprisingly passionate, to that I'm stunned. I expected demanding from a man like him, not affectionate. I timidly return the kiss, not knowing what to do but knowing I want to do it. Before I can get into it he lifts away, though not far.

He watches me a moment, gauging my reaction. His eyes are squinted, seeming to wait for a response, a response I don't provide. I look up at him, nearly panting in this strange rush of emotions and touch.

"What are you feeling," he asks skeptically.

I lick my lips," flustered." he hums, still trying to piece together something.

"flustered is good," he nods to himself, falling back to my mouth. I startle once more, still utterly confused at the turn of the night. Yet, I can't make myself stop it. I reach up and fist his tailored jacket, not knowing if I should tug him closer. The need to touch him is strong but the anxiety of everything else lingers.

The boss stuns me more as he grabs my hand holding his clothes and slings it around his shoulder. Quickly I take hold of the shirt from this angle, indirectly pulling him closer. My other hand shyly joins the first, cupping the back of his head in a timid touch.

"Doing good," he purrs, licking at my lips as he slowly settles himself on his forearms. He expertly parts my lips, telling me to let him in. I open, clenching a fistful of hair when he invades my mouth. When I tug on the bit of hair he moans, the sound felt in my mouth, felt on my tongue. The already eager kiss ramps in excitement when his hands start to trail down my body. He simply slides his hands under my shirt, holding my waist with a warm grip. His thumbs pet at my skin but stay otherwise still.

The moment seems to stretch on for hours, my discretions melting away into heart fluttering enjoyment. He doesn't push, keeping the mood just semi-erotic. I appreciate it though I'm utterly confused. What does he think he can gain from this? Surely a man like him doesn't just kiss random staff members without having some secret motive. I'm just a grunt, nothing more and nothing less. I surely hope he doesn't think he could manipulate me into sleeping with him. No, that won't do at all.

"Sir," I mumble against his lips as I try to pull away. He trails after my mouth, only pausing mid-action.

"yes," he asks. I shift back away from him, getting a better look at his closed eyes and wet parted lips.

"We should stop," I fluster. I drop my arms from around him, using them to push myself up and away. He squints his eyes open enough to watch me lounge against the wall, feet still partially under him. Looking between my eyes he sighs, dropping his head shortly after.

"Alright," he huffs," It is late, I will be on my way now." he shifts back onto his knees, rubbing at his face before righting his hat and clothes. Next, he stands up off the bed and passes me a final glance, ready to blink away.

"wait," I surprise myself by saying," can you answer one question?"

He tilts his head," besides that question?"

"yes," I deadpan," besides that one."

He smirks, clasping his hands behind his back," alright, I think I can allow one more question." I want to snort, amused but annoyed by his words. I keep quiet.

"are you," I start, worried to continue," are you going to use me?" I look at every twitch of his face with an eagle-like focus. Every nuance is jotted down as I watch him. He simply smiles, his face projecting amused affection. He then steps forward, leaning over the bed to cup my face.

"No," he answers shortly. He strokes my cheek with his thumb, watching himself do so. With a final sigh, he blinks away, no evidence of him ever being here besides my wet lips and fluttering heart.

"damn," I fall to my side," there goes my night."

The next couple of days are a whirlwind of strange. The game of chase is completely let go in favor of a game of chicken. His attentions have gone from nothing to constant. When we are ever around each other -which is way more common as of late- he attempts to touch me in some way. Though his posture and face stay casual, if not bored, he still cups my hips and trails his fingers over my spine like he is anything but bored.

Some nights he pays a visit, kissing me senseless till he decides I'm thoroughly flustered. He tries to edge me on, even taking to teasing to further some agenda I can't even bother to figure out. Though he said he wouldn't use me I feel like a toy. He comes to me with minimal conversation and shoves his tongue down my throat. The small conversations are filled with double meanings and unsaid words. He is hinting to something and I can't figure out what. I feel like a source of entertainment, picked at till he gains whatever he needed. The stress is getting to me, I've had enough.

I wait patiently in my room, leg bouncing against the bed as I cross my arms. I'm going to confront him tonight, I'm going to get some answers. This little game has to stop less I want my heart to fall victim to some scheming. Time draws on and on till its far pass the time he visits. I reluctantly settle into bed, dread, and stress muddling my brain.

The next night I wait patiently again, knowing he doesn't go for two nights in a row. I wait and wait, looking to the clock more than necessary. It’s when its well past midnight that I call it a night. Dread and stress fade out as worry takes its place.

The day after I set out to catch sight of the boss. I search high and low, keeping to the commons places in hopes of a casual encounter. I see no hide or hair of him. As I march around the facility, doing chores, that I hear about everyone avoiding the boss. It seems the man in charge has had a bit of a temper since this morning, shutting out everyone as he sits in his office.

The idea of visiting his office is appealing, knowing it to be the best time to get answers if he is mad. Anger brings out the truth. Surely I can go visit him and ask a question or two, not risking my life in the process. Though I think lowly of his intention I think he truly has no intention of maiming me.

With that decided I casually head upstairs towards his office. I make it to the familiar hallway, feeling the instinctual dread of being there. No one wants to be in this hallway, knowing who is working just at the end. Though I come here from my own free volition it's still a habit to fear this part of the building.

I walk to the door at the end, already hearing voices halfway down. As I get closer I can hear yelling. I listen intently, hearing stomping footsteps and a thing or two being knocked over. It’s when I hear a loud thud do I pick up the pace. I stop near the door, anxiety drenching my body as curiosity keeps me up. The sound of meaty thumps can be heard before a whimper.

"You are a piece of shit," a quick thunk follows," scum of the fucking earth, and that's something coming from me." I can hear the boss talking- more like yelling- behind the door. It sounds like he is entertaining again.

"boss," someone answers weakly," I'm sorry." a deep clink comes shortly after the man's words.

"Sorry doesn't earn my trust back," the boss snarls," Sorry doesn't fucking get Bradshaw off my fucking back!" the meaty claps come shortly after, repeating in alarming frequency. I step to the door, my body repealing against the idea of opening it and interrupting the important meeting.

I know who the boss is, always have. He does some shady stuff with some shady people, I being one of them. I get what's going on in there, a lesson is being learned. It's something that is understood by all who work here, don't cross the boss. Though it seems the poor idiot in there hasn't learned that though.

I don’t hear anything for a good while. It's to be assumed that business has been taken care of. Either way, I stay put, leaning closer to the door when I hear another softer voice. I try to make out some words, being more nosy this moment than I have my entire life. The softer voice only speaks for a brief moment, followed by the Boss with another set of short words.

As I focus on the door I don't hear steps walking up behind me. Only when someone grabs my shoulders do I jump. I jerk in this person's hold, stiffening as their fingers dig into my skin. I twist to look over at them, seeing a large man with a gruff-looking face. He offers no words, instead, reaching in front of me to grab the door handle.

The gruff man guides me into the room, holding firmly onto my shoulders. I look to the room, immediately finding a man collapsed on the floor covered in swelling bruises and deep cuts. He is mostly unrecognizable, his face beaten to a pulp. If I am to assume correctly, then he is dead.

"Clean this up before he stains the floor," the boss grunts as he wipes his hands with a dirty rag.

The gruff man behind me speaks," and what would you like me to do with her?" as he asks the boss snaps around, meeting my eyes quickly. He looks to me confused, twisting completely around as he drops the rag to the table.

"I'd like you to fucking let her go," the boss growls to the man," I am the only one allowed to deal with her." the clear hostility means nothing to the man behind me. He lets go and casually shuffles to the man on the floor, hefting him over his shoulders with ease. I watch the boss look to the two, following them with his eyes till the door shuts behind me. Once the door clicks does he look to me once again.

"Hello, doll," his ire drops to the familiar ease he adopts when around me. He leans back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His barely buttoned shirt wrinkles, his cuffed sleeves looking strange so far up his arms. I've never seen him so underdressed, though most would still consider his outfit formal.

"Hello," I answer guarded. I don't expect a warm welcome like this when I've been caught snooping.

"What brings you to my humble abode," he tilts his head with a small smile. It's strange to see such a night and day to his previous anger. He was screaming and beating a man into the floor. Now he is his typical charming self in a matter of seconds. I don't buy it.

"I haven't seen you in a couple days," I say, crossing my arms in the process. He gives me a once over, his smile peeling further over his cheeks.

"Miss me or something," he teases.

I scoff," or something." he chuckles, walking away from his desk to walk the room.

"Or something," he looks at the messy floor," what would that something be?" I follow him with my eyes as he skirts around me, keeping a distance. I don't bother turning around when he walks behind my back, taking the second to compose my thoughts and feelings. As of late, he has been popular in making my heart flutter like a caged bird.

"You haven't been around," I shrug," I was curious." he scoffs, seeming to understand my roundabout way of saying I've missed him. Which I guess is true, but I'd argue I want answers more than his company. Though both wouldn't be too bad.

He comes into my peripheral," I've been busy, I hope I haven't left you in need of anything in my absents."

"no," I turn away blushing," I haven't been…in need or anything. Just conflicted on some things." he hums, staying just in the corner of my eye. I can feel his eyes wandering over my body, trying to pick at every tick and twitch.

"would your confliction be related to the question you asked me the other night," he asks. I almost turn to him then, wanting to see his face, needing to see his reaction. I don't though, staring at his desk straight ahead.

"Perhaps," I answer. He huffs, his steps coming closer till I feel his heat against my back.

"do you think lowly of me," he says near my ear," do you believe I am truly a villain incapable of pure intent?"

"sometimes," I nearly whisper. I feel his sigh fan over my back. He steps closer, his front nearly touching me.

"Do you truly believe I would betray you," he asks. The question startles me, only for the reason that there is blood staining the floor beside us. "Would you betray me," he whispers against my ear. The threat feels looming as I look to the crime scene. Would I betray him if given the chance, the answer feels almost obvious.

"I don't," I huff," I don't think I could if I tried."

The boss hums approvingly, circling his arms around my hips to pull me flush to his front. His chin rests upon my shoulder, his head leaning against mine. The smell of his cologne is nearly suffocating in its intoxication. I awkwardly grab his arms, resting my hands on him.

"I don't think I could betray you if I tried," he answers similarly," you seem to have grown on me." I squeeze at his arm.

"Honestly," I ask skeptically," you truly mean me no harm, emotional or otherwise?" though he has answered this it still doesn't sit in my head, proof being demanded after every answer.

He turns and presses a shallow kiss to my neck," I could never hurt you, doll, I only wish to adore you." I turn to him, wishing above all else to believe him. He leans ever so close, his tempting kiss just in my reach.

"Prove it," I bait.

"gladly," he answers.

Quickly he has my lips captured, demanding more than ever before. His tongue takes no time delving into my mouth, circling my tongue in a sweet caress. I would have fallen if it weren't for his strong hold on my hips, instead, I keep myself propped up by him. When minimal thought comes back do I twist in his hold and tug him closer by his collar. I need his affection, crave it above all else. Thrusting my tongue into his mouth I take back some control I've lacked in these few days. He startles this time, groaning with a chuckle as I fist his hair.

"doll," he laughs into the kiss," I thought I was proving my affections here."

"then catch up," I tease, taking his mouth for mine once more. He growls, a sound I haven't really heard from him before, and lifts me. I yelp, holding tightly to his shoulders as my pelvis meets his lower stomach. His smile spread across his face as he squeezes my thighs.

"Sorry, doll, but I'm the boss here," he nips at my lips, lapping at them shortly after. His normally sweet kisses are oh so more divine now as fire is brought into the mix. My insides nearly throb with a need I've rarely ever felt before. I want him- oh god do I want him.

As we attack each other I hear a quick whoosh by my ears, my hair quickly flicking in the wind. I open my eyes enough to see out the corners that we aren't in the same room. I dislodge from him, looking around the bedroom we have teleported to.

"your room," I ask, having never been here before.

"Yes," he watches me," Is that a problem?"

I look to him with a cheeky smile," no." I continue where we left off, suckling his tongue. He walks us somewhere, the destination not particularly important in my mind. What feels more important is the insistent throbbing in my crotch. I find myself bucking into him, grinding myself into his firm stomach.

The boss rips his mouth from mine as I fall backward. I clench at his shirt, gasping when something springy shapes to my back. I drop my hands back, feeling soft sheets below me. I look up to him, quirking a brow. He shrugs, falling over me in a familiar position. Though this time he angles himself in a way I can finally feel his hardon poking me. I groan at the feeling, wanting to grab him right now.

Everything seemingly melds together, one moment I'm in his office, and next, I'm in his room. One second I have a shirt on and next, I'm laying in only my underwear. Him being left in only his hat and pants. The boss admires me for a second, the rush of erotic sensations nearly paused. His look is fierce, fire pouring from his gaze, but it still has room for affection and true admiration.

"so damn beautiful," he pets at my chest. He fondles my boob, thumbing my nipple with an all too excited gleam in his eye. "I could wreck you so easily," he ponders aloud. I reach up to his bare chest, running my fingers from his sternum down to his pants.

"I thought you wanted to adore me," I smirk, tugging him closer by his belt. He falls to his hands, cradling my head in his arms.

"Doll, I want to do everything to you," he purrs, attacking my neck with love bites. I hum, slowly flicking off his belt and reaching into his pants. He stiffens, grunting as I grab him.

"big words from a big man," I tease, stroking his cock.

He shutters," you don't know big yet, doll. Now be a good girl and let your boss go."

I let him go, slowly sliding my hand out of his pants," yes, sir."

The boss lets out a shaky breath, dropping his head to my shoulder for a moment. My nails glide over his stomach towards his chest and back down. I allow him a second, though that's all he needs.

He sits up, pushing off his pants but keeping his boxers. I admire the tent, feeling oh so powerful at the moment. I did that, I am the one who turned him on. That thought alone makes me feel ten feet tall.

I hardly notice when his hand trails up my thigh till he hooks a finger over my underwear. He tugs them down, grinning to himself as my mound is revealed. He tosses the clothing away without a care, quickly reaching out to thumb at my lips. The subtle soft feeling of his touch is nearly enough to make me groan in anticipation. I want him to touch me, I need him to touch me. He does as I silently plead, sliding a finger between my folds. He swipes up toward my clit, massaging so smoothly.

"So wet," he purrs," so wet for me." I don't bother with words as he delves his fingers lower, poking at my entrance with great amusement. I engulf his fingers as he pushes them in, slowly pumping them in and out with a curled retreat. My legs spread further apart on their own as I relish in the lazy strokes.

"Sir," I sigh. He looks up to me, his gaze is all too alluring. My teeth grind as I fight back the urge to buck towards him. God, I need him. His head tilts so slightly as he sighs, his fingers retreat shortly after. He crawls back above me, cleaning off his fingers with his tongue as he does.

"Why must you pull me in so easily," he asks as he discards his last remaining clothing," I want nothing more than to feast upon you but your hungry looks demand more." I reach up and cup his face then adjusting his hat that he kept upon his head. His cock pokes at my crotch, gently sliding at my lips as he lightly jerks his hips.

I pap his cheek," get over it, I've been hungry all week because of you."

He scoffs," all you had to do was ask."

"like I could get the chance to with your tongue down my throat at every turn," I answer. He laughs, looking down between us to grab at himself.

"I think you could have found a way to ask if you truly wanted to," he answers absently as he pushes his tip forward. I suck in a choked breath, tense against the sudden entry. The stretch of just his tip is already fulfilling to someone so starved this past month. He bucks shallowly forward, inching himself in slowly. He soon hilts, looking back up at me with a relieved face.

"I couldn't ask when I didn't know the true intentions," I mumble as my attention is solely drawn to his filling cock. My leg hikes over his hip, pulling him closer. He drops a hand to that thigh, bouncing his hips in slow short drives.

"Well," he kisses at my cheek," do you know my intention now?" I turn to him, meeting his eyes in such a vulnerable moment. Everything I feel is lain bare, the tenderness I feel towards him shining brightly. I cup his cheek, his short bucks ceasing.

"That really depends on after," I nearly whisper. He doesn't answer, instead, pressing a deep kiss to my lips. As he claims me his hips drawback before snapping forward in a breathtaking thrust. He starts a demanding pace, taking and giving in equal parts. His cock hits deep, stoking a fire that I felt was already an inferno. I fall away from his lips, whimpering against him as he plows into me. Our hips clap as the bed squeaks. I now know what it feels like to be on the other side of the wall, not to hear but to be part of the ruckus.

The boss forces pleasure from me with every buck of his hips. I whimper and grind into him, not being able to stay still as my insides crescendo. I barely notice how silent he is, me making enough noise for the both of us. He watches me steadily fall apart, in complete rapture at my noises. A hand sneaks between us, running through my curls before resting upon my engorged clit. I seethe at the gentle prod, crying out as he starts small circles. As I shout for him does he make a sound, a gentle gasp as his lips part.

I feel burned, hot, and demanding at this moment. My insides flutter with its oncoming orgasm. I yell and scream, reaching out to pull him closer as I have no better idea. I suddenly sit on the cusp of true pleasure, my body stiffening as just a breeze could push me over. I reach for him, pulling him in for a wet kiss. He allows it, briefly, pulling away as I fall.

The boss watches me, his face contorting in near pain. His hips stutter as my insides clench him tightly. I can barely keep focus enough to watch him as I arch and writhe below. My screams stutter out till I'm left silent, panting as he continues my orgasm with his unstoppable thrusts.

"Please," I beg. Begging for him to stop, begging for him to keep going. I somehow keep focus enough to watch him, watch him sigh and grunt till his hips slap to mine with one final buck. He drops his head to my shoulder, panting against my ear as he rolls his hips. I can feel his heat, feel his cum paint my insides. I am unable to do anything but hug him close and catch my breath

It takes longer than I thought possible to come back to myself. I'm still left panting under him, only able to listen to his own ragged breathing. I pet at his sweaty back, running the ends of my nails over his shoulder. We just hold one another, lost in the bliss.

"you steal my heart, doll," he mumbles in my hair," how could I ever part from you when you sing so beautifully for me?" I chuckle, not being able to form words just yet. The boss turns us on our sides, cradling me to his chest so tenderly. He pets at my hair, burying his nose against my temple. "I fear I have stronger feelings than first intended," he whispers," I will not leave you for more than a second at a time, my heart couldn't take more than that."

"do you always get this poetic after sex," I ask. He scoffs, reaching down to grab my thigh. He pulls my leg over his hip once more, petting up towards my ass. He gives me a quick slap, jiggling my rear as he does. I yelp, squeezing him when I do. He grunts, baring his teeth. He chuckles shortly after

"only for you, love," he answers," only for you."

I sigh, sliding my hand between us to pet at his chest. I want to give those words back, as I mean them just as truly as he does. The words sit on the end of my tongue, ready to be broadcasted to the world. It takes me a moment to gain courage, still resting securely in his arms.

"I love you," I barely get out. He holds me closer, nuzzling my head.

"I love you, too," he answers in kind. I try to fight off the smile spreading across my face but it's damn near impossible. I smile to myself and close my eyes.

--------------------

my intention never go as planned. i was struggling to write and i saw a cute post on villain with a soft spot for his lover. so i write a small tid bit, the part where he tends to her wounds. IT WASN’T SUPPOSE TO BE 7K WORDS! like how? i stayed up till 2am writing this. i’m just a sap, through and through.

Check out my Archive | Masterlist | Main Blog

[zutarasecrettunnel]

OK I did it I updated my Zutara Week chapter fic. This idea was inspired by the Day 6 prompt for this year, "Spirits".

Story summary:

The war is over for everyone but Katara, who keeps seeing the scarred face of the boy who sacrificed himself for her and for the world everywhere she looks. When she finds out why she is experiencing these so-called hallucinations, she may be led right into a trap centuries in the making.

Here's chapter 2 of Your Face, I See. 

You can also read it on AO3.

Teardrops marked her path like breadcrumbs as she made her way through the empty streets of the Fire Nation capitol. She raced toward the palace, desperate to believe that what propelled her was just another hallucination, albeit much more terrifying this time. She wasn't even sure the voice that sounded so much like Yue had been real. Why had she talked about Tui and La? Why had her visions of Zuko intensified? Why could she now hear his voice? She was convinced that her mind was lost, reduced to ash by the flames of Sozin's comet.

Katara threw open one of the grand, heavy doors of the palace. Her feet pounded into the lacquered wood floor, aching with each impact. Her breath was frayed, lungs inflating jaggedly as she struggled to take in the breaths needed to recover from her long, swift escape. Her passage through the daunting royal halls was blighted by tears and dim torchlight. She wiped at her eyes pointlessly as she pressed on.

The many-legged monstrosity had not followed her. She ran from her fear, her grief, and her doubt. She ran aimlessly, toward nothing in particular. She ran straight into something solid but soft.

"Master Katara?"

At first she didn't want to hear another voice, but when it's owner registered in her mind, she turned her chin upward to meet the surprised gaze of Fire Lord Iroh. His face was gaunt but kind, his half-illuminated expression full of concern. She blinked slowly, finally able to gain some clarity in her blurred vision. This was the first time she had seen this man since the joyless coronation ceremony held shortly after the end of the Hundred Years War. He had used the duties of the crown to avoid the younger war heroes almost completely, only holding audience with Aang and even then infrequently. The reluctant ruler had lost his lust for life with the loss of his nephew. He operated only in duty now.

He gazed at her, confused at her sudden appearance in a misplaced palace hallway. At her silence, he tried again.

"Master Katara? What are you doing in this part of the palace, especially so late at night?" His tone was doleful and flat, but not accusatory. He sounded tired, and uncharacteristically old.

She tried to maintain the facade she had so carefully cultivated over the recent months. She tried to reinforce the levies of her fears and sadness. With the sound of Iroh's broken spirit, the waterbender was overcome. Her emotion spilled over the dams she had built like a tidal wave.

She launched herself at the man's midsection, burying her face in the silk of his robes. She soaked them with all of her pent up mourning, all of the anguish, consternation and madness. Iroh stood for a moment, unmoving, before finally pulling the crying girl into an empathetic embrace. She sobbed, openly and fiercely, the sounds eventually trying to form words that were finally ready to come out.

"I can't stop seeing him."

Iroh resisted the urge to pull away from the soggy girl at her admission, instead placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. He waited a moment before calmly asking the question he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to.

"Can't stop seeing who?" It was at that point he felt her tug, removing herself from the sleeve of his robe to look directly at him.

"Zuko."

Iroh took a small step back, regret clear in his features. The suspicion had been present in his mind since the girl spoke her first sopping words to him in the darkness, but to hear it caused his latent guilt to come roaring back to life like a tigerdillo. At the same time, the tidal wave of emotion in Katara had begun to recede. She couldn't continue to meet the old man's forlorn gaze. Her wind-tangled hair fell around her shoulders as she studied the floor.

"He's been haunting me ever since. . ." she paused, sniffling hard, before continuing quietly. "About a week after he. . .after he died."

The aged Fire Lord pondered for a moment. Silence hung between the two figures huddled in the opulence of the royal chambers like the fine tapestries on the wall. Iroh was slow in his words as he responded, returning to the sagely demeanor that had defined his character prior to the end of the war.

"Grief. . .does many things to people," he started, stroking his beard. "It can often feel like a negative spirit hanging over you, or a curse. You most of all were connected to the. . ." the older man lost his words at this point, but regained them after a moment, "the loss we all suffered. You were there. You were. . ."

Katara didn't lift her head or move from the spot as Iroh found himself unable to finish his statement. "In any case, I'm sure you wi-"

The water tribe peasant demonstrated her knowledge of and respect for Fire Nation customs as she pointedly interrupted it's ruler.

"I only see his face, always just staring at me. But tonight he called my name, asking me to help him. Begging me. But this time there was a monster and-" the words tumbled out of her as she faced Iroh again, only coming to a halt when he grabbed her by the shoulder.

"What kind of monster?!" His whisper was a shout in disguise.

"I-it crawled. It had so many legs, like a giant centipede. But it had his face," Katara felt her eyes stinging again as she recounted the features of the miscreation that had poached the scarred visage of the fire prince. "I don't know," she shook her head, hands on either ear, "I didn't look at it too long. I ran straight back here."

The already feeble posture of the lament-laden Fire Lord continued to cave. It was as if Iroh had lost his footing on the thick wood of the palace hall.

He uttered one syllable, his eyes unfocused. "Koh."

Katara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding on to.

"Who-what is Koh?" she hurled her question more forcefully than she meant to. The possibility that she may not just be going insane had slipped from her weeks ago.

Iroh turned from her, waiting before speaking. "The face stealer, a nefarious spirit," he replied. The wizened old firebender muttered to himself quietly while Katara attempted to process what had already been said.

"A face...stealer?" the information settled into the young girl like a stone in a lake. "You mean it. . .he. . .Zuko. . ."

The waterbender quieted, a different kind of storm brewing inside of her. Her voice was a low rumble when it came from her next.

"Do you mean to tell me that this. . .Koh. . .stole Zuko's face in the spirit world and has been haunting me with it ever since?"

Iroh placed a palm on the crimson painted wall of the palace hallway, steadying himself on this renewed grief.

"It would appear so," he replied softly, sadly.

"So how do we save him?" Again her inquiry was hushed, a murmur of hope too scared to make itself known.

"We don't."

The Fire Lord's voice was a scratch in the darkness as he uttered the short response, as if the words themselves burned in his throat like his element uncontrolled.

The growing thunder in Katara rumbled louder.

"What do you mean 'we don't'?"

"Master Katara," Iroh began, "this spirit is dangerous."

She stared intently at the older man, her lips a thin quivering line of a response not yet ready to be released. In its stead, the tired ruler continued.

"When I was a younger man, after I lost Lu Ten, I entered the spirit world to find him, to bring him back. It took many months of study, and in trying to find my way in, I also found knowledge of Koh the face stealer, a spirit who can take your face if you show any hint of emotion in his presence," he explained, "If you go after him, it will only be to give him your face, too. I do not know of a way to defeat him."

Katara stood firm. The sadness that had hovered over her like a stormcloud for months finally snapped, and the waterbender unleashed the full power of the anger that now coursed through her like the lightning that had been its origin.

"Dangerous? I've been haunted by this spirit for months. I've been seeing Zuko's face everywhere, and I thought it was just guilt, just sadness, just me going crazy because he died saving me. He died saving me and for what?" she cried, her emphatic syllables echoing through the chamber. "For me to do nothing? For me to be afraid? Even if I can't bring him back, I can't leave his spirit like that. He risked it all, his country, his future. . ."

Her words slowed as the tempest within her drained itself. Her voice broke and quieted again as she finished her thought.

"I can at least risk my face. I can at least. . ." She felt her own fingers lightly touching her left cheek as she trailed off.

Her companion waited, ensuring the storm had passed before issuing his decree.

"I forbid it."

The assertion was strong, an uncharacteristic order more suited to the Dragon of the West than the grief-stricken old man he had become.

"You will lose yourself in this doomed quest. Do not try to go after Koh, Master Katara," he softened, adding one final thought to his order. "I will have the fire sages and the healers work to find you a remedy for this influence. You shouldn't see him again."

Tears flowed freely from the girl's eyes as she refused to allow them to look up at the man in front of her.

"I will go to them in the morning, Fire Lord Iroh," she responded weakly, "now I am tired. May I please be excused to my chambers?" He bid her the leave she requested, but not before placing both hands on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort to the wounded girl.

"I promise you will have peace, my dear," he said calmly, his own pain present in his tone, "the sages have access to vast libraries of spiritual knowledge that will be used to heal you of this affliction. "

He barely heard her mutter a thank you before she bowed and quickly made her way down the grand hallway.

[wallwriterstuff]

It’s Always Been You ||Demetri Volturi x Jane Volturi||

Warnings: Jane is aged up to 19 in this fic. Graphic descriptions of torture and violence. 

Words: 3956

Summary:  A request for @blonde-weasley 

What if the one person you were looking for happened to be the one person who had always been beside you? What if you were meant to be with the one person you had sworn to never touch? When a mission goes horribly wrong, Demetri and Jane realise that just because they have forever, it doesn’t mean they should wait that long. 

Some things in life simply weren’t meant to be.

Empires rose with ambitions bigger than their means - and fell just as easily. Whole cities were destroyed because nature saw them as a blight on her landscape. Some people ruthlessly took the lives of others to gain power and a feeling of control, only to be caught and made weak by the bars of a prison cell. Karma had a way of evening out the odds, resetting the balance in the world when it began to fall out of order. Karma was cruel, and her timing was truly awful. So awful in fact, she’d decided that today, on a frost-bitten battlefield in some godforsaken corner of Romania, was the day she ought to collect a debt from Jane.

Jane was no fool. Her life had been pain in every sense of the word. Ostracised, beaten and taunted, her childhood had been warped and tainted from the start, only for her adulthood to come to an abrupt and most excruciating end. She hadn’t regretted waking up as a vampire from the day it had happened, too full of anger and resentment and delighted she could finally fight back. No villager was left alive once left to the mercy of the twins, a secret they had kept for centuries. After all, how would it look to know the Volturi had let a couple of newborns wipe out a small, well-known village? No, the rumour had to be spread and (their people made to believe it true) that the Volturi had simply killed witnesses to exposure so as not to contravene the law. In her eternal life she had kept plenty of dark secrets, relished in the chance to torture others as she had been tortured. The fury that had burned her alive had been solidified by the venom and there wasn’t a day that went by she didn’t have to find some sort of outlet for it.

She had lived a cursed life since the moment she was born, and karma was finally reaping her debt from her. Jane hadn’t felt pain like it for centuries. It was sharp and white hot, bursting up her arm and down her spine like sparks straight off a welding iron. Her scream ripped through the air, turning the heads of a few of the guard on that damned battlefield. Alec and Jane were supposed to be undefeatable after all, it was what their name implied, what their gifts demanded.

“Sister!” Alec’s roar was almost drowned out by the deafening snarl of someone else, but she was too busy to try to recognise the sound. With only one arm she couldn’t defend herself against the man before her, his lips twisted into a vicious, sinister grin and red eyes focused on her. She hissed, hyper-focused on causing him as much agony as possible while she swung her arm around to fight off who she assumed was his mate. The blonde man sailed away from her and she returned her focus to his mate, the brunette man collapsing to his knees with a strangled gasp. His jaw split so wide in a scream that fissures opened along his skin. Jane felt the third rather than saw him, her stomach churning because she knew it was too late for her by now. Karma really was a bitch today. One arm lost in the fray, her focus on the man in front of her…she really had no chance to intercept the man coming in from the side. Her legs were roughly shoved from under her and she went down hard with a grunt of pain, the cracks in her knees ensuring she wouldn’t be getting up again any time soon. Her head was shoved into the frostbitten ground.

“Jane!” She knew that voice. Demetri. He was coming. She had to fight back, give him time…this couldn’t be how it ended, not here, not like this! With a snarl she began to thrash, but she was past her newborn year and but decades old in comparison to her aggressor, no match for his strength. Her cheek cracked against the ground, skin screeching as the rough edges rubbed together. She could feel her skull starting to cave as a knee pressed into her spine, cracking it down the centre and immobilising her completely. Her eyes flew wide open, panic setting in. She couldn’t see Demetri anywhere, he wasn’t in her line of sight. Was he even coming? Had she imagined it? Her skin was splitting, her skull would be next. A soft whimper escaped her, eyes closing so she wouldn’t have to see the face of her brother as he determinedly shot a sea of black in her direction. Alec would suffer her loss, but he had to live.

“Goodbye Alec.”

Karma really was a bitch.

The sound of her skin snapping and breaking under his hand was blistering, bouncing around inside his skull as he tried to wrestle the big lug of an idiot off of him. Demetri was blinded with fury, a deafening and monstrous snarl ripping continuously from his chest. The sea of black mist was honestly a godsend. His opponent went completely limp above him and Demetri shoved him off with a hard kick, letting someone else deal with him while he raced for Jane. The girl was awfully aloof for a 19-year-old and it had taken him a long time to see past the stony exterior to the real Jane beneath. The Jane that liked to read poetry and to paint, the Jane that liked to collect coins on every mission they went on because she had never seen wealth in her human days and was still revelling in what this new life had to offer her. The Jane that held her brother on such a high pedestal Demetri had been sure she would never see past the shining example that was Alec to love another man quite so deeply.

She was cringing into the frostbitten ground now, as weak as she had been the day she burned, and it infuriated him. Had Jane not suffered enough? She was always so headstrong and stubborn. She had been a fool to stray from her guard, perhaps a bit too proud, but weren’t they all the reasons he adored her? No, he didn’t adore her, that wasn’t allowed. Still…he took great satisfaction in tearing her opponent off of her. He had beaten Alec’s paralyzing vapour to the punch and had no trouble launching the man’s mate into the oncoming fog to take him out of the picture.

“Do not dare to numb him Alec! I want him to feel this!” he roared, snapping his hand off at the wrist. Alec’s mist obediently encircled them, ensuring neither could escape the fight ahead but both would have to endure it. Demetri could still see her out of the corner of his eye, missing an arm and part of her leg now, her face shattered like a porcelain doll who had been thrown to the ground. His fury burned bright and he gave his opponent no quarter. He deftly dodged at the hand swiping for his head, gripping it at the wrist to bring the man forward only to shove his hand against his collarbone, effectively ripping his arm from the socket. The brunette howled, eyes sparking with rage and pain, but Demetri didn’t back down, agilely twisting behind him to stomp on the back of his leg. His foot smashed right through the man’s calf and he collapsed sideways, Demetri falling to one knee with him so he could punch his fist clean through the back of his knee.

“Anghel!” he cried out for his mate and Demetri sent his fist sailing into his jaw.

“Cry all you like, he will join you soon enough in the depths of hell.” He promised, eyes wild. He could still see Jane in his mind’s eyes even if she was physically shrouded in mist, mercifully no longer aware of her own pain. He was determined to take revenge for her, to ensure she was safe. Jane deserved someone to fight for her and he would be damned if it wasn’t him. He caught the stump of a wrist aiming for his jaw, twisting until his forearm began to crack and the man beneath him bucked helplessly, screaming for mercy. Demetri didn’t stop twisting until the arm came off at the elbow, mercilessly tossing it into the fog surrounding them.

“You brute! You will burn in hell for this! Vladimir will send you there himself!” he howled. Demetri laughed, the sound mirthless and bitter.

“Stefan has already fled and your precious Vladimir will be not far behind. Their mates burn on the pyres their incompetence created, their army reduced to nothing more than kindling. I will have no mercy on such an intolerable waste of immortality.” He hissed, gripping the man’s thigh and pushing up ruthlessly until it snapped off at the pelvic bone. Piece by piece, he took his time tearing the other vampire apart, his mind a dizzying array of thoughts. The sounds of tearing metal were drowned out by the storm in his head, and by the time the last pieces of his enemy were aflame he was somewhat shocked at the level of his brutality. He had not made it quick, he had suffered. Felix stood just beyond the ring of mist that slowly receded, looking concerned for him with a healing crack along his cheek.

“Are you injured?” he asked. Demetri swallowed back the venom that had pooled in his mouth.

“Jane is-“

“I asked about you, not Jane. Alec is with her now.” Felix interrupted him, voice clam but firm. Demetri immediately turned his head, trying to find the petite blonde, but Felix gripped his chin and forced him to look at him. Felix was older than all of them by a considerable number of centuries, Demetri came next, the twins last, but ultimately they had all been under his tutelage at one time or another.

“She-“

“I asked, about, you.” Felix repeated slowly. Demetri took a breath he didn’t need, slowly nodding.

“I am uninjured.” He confirmed. Felix gave a brisk nod in reply and let him go, making no move to stop him this time as he scanned the battlefield for Jane’s fallen body. He prayed he wasn’t too late, that she might yet still heal, but she had taken a lot of damage. What was he supposed to do without her sharp, caustic wit driving him to insanity? Alec cradled her head in his lap, looking distraught and infuriated.

“Tell me he is dead, tell me he suffered.” He sounded suspiciously close to crying, if that was still possible. Demetri fell to his knees in front of them, eyes fixed on Jane’s shattered face. The cracks were healing over too slowly for him to take any comfort from the sight, her lost limbs still nowhere near her. He couldn’t quite fathom it; it didn’t compute right away that this limp and vulnerable girl was Jane. His Jane was strong and proud and stood tall, she was whole. Alec’s wild eyes were locked on his own, pure black with the need to feed.

“She needs her arm, why is she not – where are they?” Demetri looked around, trying to find a flash of near black that matched her cloak or the dainty fingers he had come to know through the gentle flipping of anthology pages. Alec gently stroked her cheek with his thumb, whispering quiet words of comfort. Demetri had a new mission, ignoring the Masters’ as they drifted across the battlefield towards them. Jane was coming home with them if it was the last thing he ever did, and she would come home in one piece. Fires blazed around him and he grew more agitated as time passed, more marble limbs flying past him and onto the pyres surrounding him. Had someone already burned her limbs by mistake? It couldn’t be. She’d kill him if he came back with the wrong ones for her he was sure. Besides, how was he supposed to feel knowing it wasn’t her hand that brushed his as they passed books between them in the library? It would be wrong, all wrong.

His frantic search was paused by a gnarled set of fingers gripping his shoulder. His head snapped up, and he met the tired, sympathetic eyes of Master Marcus. He said nothing, simply extended his hand and pointed a bony finger to the left. Demetri followed it with his eyes. A pale hand reached out from the depths of a near black cloak, and with relief saturating his soul he darted forward to snatch it up off of the ground. No more was said about that moment as he returned to Jane’s side, already lathering the wound with his venom in the hopes it might stick, that it wasn’t too late to save her. He used the shredded cloak to tie the two pieces together, Alec tucked the broken arm against his chest for added reinforcement with a grateful nod.

“Demetri, you will need to stay with the others to ensure this mess is cleaned up.” Master Aro informed him. Demetri growled.

“With respect Master I must stay with Jane, she is badly wounded-“

“Let the boy return, Aro.” Marcus rasped. Demetri gave him a grateful nod, relief flooding his system. He missed the way Marcus slipped his hand into Aro’s grasp, the way Aro’s eyes glanced between them with nothing but joy on his face. Demetri remained close to Alec as they carried her home, glaring off anyone who dared get too close to either twin. If Alec noticed he didn’t comment on it, nor did he say a word as they remained silent sentries at her bedside for the days to come. The only time either of them moved was if a human needed to be brought in to feed her, the pair taking it in turns to gently hold up her prone body while they fed her via a cup they drained their victim of choice into. By day 3, when she started swallowing on her own, his hope was returning full force that she might yet be okay.

“You have remained at her side. Why?” Alec’s question was blunt and out of the blue. Demetri frowned, truthfully afraid of what her twin might do if he knew the truth. He had had a lot of time to think, observe both Jane and himself. He knew the way his body reacted, the way his mind raced, he had quietly contemplated for days what it all might mean, looking for any solution other than the one he was faced with. He had waited since the day he had turned for this moment, watching Amun and Kebi first and then Aro and Caius with their wives…

“I cannot leave her.” Demetri settled on the simple answer, the one that might ensure Alec didn’t tear him limb from limb. He studied the younger twin carefully, noting Alec had yet to take his eyes off of his sister as he contemplated his answer. Demetri had quite honestly hated them both when they first arrived in the coven. Who were they to come in and replace high ranking guards he had called friend for the handful of years he’d been alive? Mere children really. 19 was no age to die, and yet…he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help that hers was the first tenor he looked for when he returned home for a mission, nor that she was the only person he could really bring himself to be around on the days he didn’t really feel like speaking to anyone. He couldn’t help the way she distracted him with the smallest things, like the way she tucked her hair behind her ear or that small smile she reserved for the flowers in the garden she had planted when she first arrived. All those little things had added up until one big, undeniable truth smacked him in the face.

He couldn’t live without her now.

Jane inadvertently saved him from Alec’s wrath with a deep inhale, her eyes fluttering before they popped open on a sharp exhale. Her expression was carefully blank, eyes fixed on the ceiling with such intensity it alarmed him. Alec almost sagged in relief.

“Sister…how do you feel?” he questioned. Jane was quiet for a long moment before she finally seemed to release the tension she’d been holding in, sagging into the mattress slightly and turning her head to look at him. Demetri ignored the slight twinge in his chest, knowing the way she reached for her brother was only natural. He pulled her upright with his hug, face buried in her hair, but his red eyes were fixed on the tracker and full of an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Strange. I was…paralysed, but I could hear you all. For a while I was burning again,” she sounded so traumatised, “Where is Demetri? He saved me, right? Is he okay?” Alec pulled away, glancing between them both.

“I should leave you two to talk.” His voice was blunt and he left without another word, leaving Jane to his care. The blonde faced him, eyes guarded and expression set in stone. It was almost as if she thought he might attack her.

“I am glad to see you awake.” He said, shattering the uncomfortable silence building between them. Jane gave him a terse nod, looking him over with her eyes as if she didn’t actually believe he had fought for her and was looking for imperfections now to prove her theory.

“I am glad to see you unharmed.” She answered. The uncomfortable stare off continued, Jane’s fingers twisting into the bedsheets beneath her. Her expression was unreadable and Demetri only grew more agitated as the time passed. Could she not feel what he felt? Her tenor was all but tugging him towards her, something in the air between them had become charged and palpable.

“Jane…” he found he didn’t quite have the words to explain or describe what had come over him since they’d last spoken. Jane didn’t seem to need to hear them though.

“You saved me. I…I was aware, of what you did for me, the vengeance you claimed for me,” Jane’s brows furrowed, “I cannot understand why.” Demetri swallowed, feeling his gut twist. Was this feeling one-sided perhaps? It could not be unrequited, no…no he couldn’t spend the rest of forever feeling like this when she was so close, but so out of reach.

“As I told Alec, I cannot leave your side,” He repeated, brain scrambling as he tried to think of some way to explain himself, “There are a great many things in this world I can do on my own, but they seem rather pointless without you.” Her fingers tightened in the sheets till he heard cotton tearing.

“This is a dangerous conversation, Demetri.” She warned him. Demetri’s lips twitched into a mirthless smile.

“If you want to talk dangerous, shall we discuss why you strayed from your guard on the battlefield?” he challenged. Her face fell into a spiteful glare.

“Maybe next time I shan’t bother helping you then, seeing as you were about to be frozen to the spot by that gifted vampire.” She sniffed. Demetri’s smile turned more genuine, her sarcasm feeling like all the proof he needed she would be just fine.

“I have a few ways I would thank you, but I fear you might cause me immeasurable agony if I tried.” He teased lightly. If Jane could blush he was sure she would have, instead she turned her nose up at him and scoffed slightly, but her eyes were alight with a mixture of fear and curiosity, almost like she wanted him to try. Demetri didn’t test his luck too much, but he did reach for her face with his hand, tenderly stroking her cheek. She leaned into his touch very slowly, staring at him from under her lashes.

“This feeling…it frightens me.” She confessed quietly. Demetri nodded in understanding.

“Me to, but I am tired of trying to deny it. Perhaps…perhaps we go slowly, try to figure out where we stand?” he suggested. Jane was quiet for a moment, pondering exactly what she wanted, and then she reached up to squeeze his wrist.

“Okay.” She whispered. He smiled, a kind of warmth spreading through him he had never experienced before. To have his mate accept him was an exhilarating experience. She didn’t push his hands away when he helped her up, and his hand remained on the small of her back as they walked together down the corridor towards the throne room. Alec awaited them near the bottom of the hallway, leaning against the stone. His stare was icy as they approached him but Demetri was feeling bold, and left his hand where it was.

“I see you haven’t killed him. How…disappointing.” Alec murmured, squinting at the tracker with a sneer. Jane frowned.

“She has time yet.” Demetri grinned. Alec only snarled quietly.

“Play nicely, boys.” She threatened. Alec’s head tilted and the twins seemingly had a silent conversation with nothing more than some exchanged glances before he gave Demetri a single nod.

“Do not make a mess of this Demetri.” The warning was very stark and Demetri could only nod in understanding. He supposed it just happened to be a consequence of being mated to one of the Witch Twins.

[fairfaxleasee]

DADW Killer Gnomes (Part II)

@rangeredacted gave me the amazing/terrible suggestion to write something about killer garden gnomes for @dadrunkwriting. I wrote Part I last week (you can check it out here but couldn't finish because I had my second COVID shot.

But here's the end, in all it's bloody, camp horror glory:

Cullen pushed Solas out of his way and strode out of his office. He looked around for any sign of the blighted gnome the Inquisitor had brought back to Skyhold (he didn't care what Solas said, Ayala Trevelyan had brought the thing into the castle, she was responsible for everything that happened because she did - besides, if she hadn't put it in the garden, he wouldn't have taken it out of the garden and awoken it).

"Commander, as distasteful as we both find the idea, might I suggest things would proceed more smoothly if we were to work together to attempt to contain the gnomes you've released?"

"For the last time, Solas! This was not my fault!"

"Debatable, Commander. And while I am perfectly willing to engage you in such a debate, I do not believe that this is the time for such a discussion. If you would listen, I believe even you would not miss that we have bigger concerns than laying blame." Solas paused and inclined his head slightly. Now that the man wasn't lecturing him, Cullen could hear the screaming coming from several directions around Skyhold.

Cullen pursed his lips and glared.

"It is pleasing to see that you are occasionally capable of being rational. Perhaps you will realize that the entire situation was your fault after all."

As tempting as it was to push the man off the parapet they were on and into the carnage below, Cullen decided against it. Solas might be still be useful, and he could always push him later.

"Alright, Solas. You want to work together? Fine. What do you suggest we do first?"

"Well, that depends, Commander. Just how many scouts that seem to have on concept or concern whatsoever for their surroundings wander around here?"

"Too many." Cullen crossed his arms.

"Then I believe we should assume that the screaming is not coming from them and that they have already been... repurposed by the present adversary. We should therefore also assume that there are too many of the gnomes wandering around to attempt to capture them. As such, I believe the first thing we should do is find Ayala."

"So help me Solas, if you just want to check and make sure your girlfriend is okay -" Cullen didn't have an end to the threat, but judging by Solas' face he wouldn't have heard it anyway.

After a few seconds of silence, the man opened his mouth and drawled. "Not that I have any expectations at all that you will listen to me about this, but I am in no way concerned about Ayala's safety. I have every confidence she is perfectly fine, which is the reason I believe we should seek her out. Neither my magic nor your shields are any sort of match for her barriers."

The fact that Solas had a point about why finding Ayala was their best move only made the entire situation worse somehow. He exhaled through his nose and spoke through gritted teeth, "...fine. Where'd you leave her?"

Solas looked up and shook his head in a gesture Cullen hated. "I did not 'leave' her anywhere, Commander. Last I saw, she was on her way to the kitchens."

"Alright, we'll go to the kitchens then," Cullen took a step away from the apostate, but the man obviously had other plans because he tugged Cullen back towards him by his jerkin.

"I believe we should go around the long way. Unless, of course, you wish to meet a similar fate to your scouts."

Cullen looked down at the carnage in the coutryard below. "I... fine. You have a point."

Taking the long way around to the kitchens took a bit more work than Cullen would have liked (particularly when Solas lept effortlessly across the gap in the roof to get from the parapet to the main castle and had to keep Cullen from falling off - he'd never live that one down). Of course, Cullen liked what they found in the kitchen even less than he'd liked getting to the kitchen.

Ayala was kneeling on the floor next to the table and was handing out kernels of popcorn to individual gnomes while engaging them in what she seemed to think was perfectly normal conversation despite the fact that they were covered in blood and viscera.

"No, I already told you you can't have another one before everyone gets one."

"Bar-ra-rrr!"

"I'm not sure we have any more I can make."

"Ra-rargh-arr."

"Uhhh... I think they keep it in the larder? If you bring up more from there, I can make more and then you can have some."

"Rargh-arg-rarr."

"Well then you're not getting any more until everyone else gets one. Now scoot." She picked up the protesting gnome and put it aside from the line that had formed in front of her, then tapped it slightly to encourage it to move.

"Grrr-rar-rr..." The gnome saw Cullen and apparently decided to work out is frustration on being denied popcorn on him as it clawed its fingers and began running directly towards him. Cullen lashed out with a quick kick that launched the thing toward the nearest wall where it shattered and released a large cloud of dust.

"Is that dust something we have to be worried about?" Cullen glared as he directed the question at Solas.

"Not unless you are allergic. However, it does mean that was not the original gnome. The original gnome will not be destroyed so easily."

"Lovely." Cullen started striding towards Ayala, who had resumed handing out popcorn.

The gnomes waiting in the line took offence to Cullen's movements, but unlike the one he had just kicked, their protests weren't aggressive. One of them rapped his boot with its fist and gesticulated angrily between Cullen, the popcorn, and the back of the line. Cullen glared down at the thing. He was in no mood to be lectured on manners by a blood-covered, killer garden gnome.

He reached the table and grabbed the bowl of popcorn away from Ayala. She looked up at him in alarm. "Hey! That's mine!"

He was denied the opportunity to respond to her protest by the entire line of gnomes turning on him. He tried throwing the popcorn on the ground, but the gnomes were far more interested in trying to tear him apart than whatever they wanted the popcorn for. "Solas? A little help?"

"Perhaps you should think of this as a lesson in taking things that aren't yours, Commander. Besides, if you can't handle a few statues, perhaps the Inquisition should be seeking someone else for your position regardless."

Cullen threw whatever gnomes he could get his hands on at Solas (and annoyingly kept missing, the man was just as slippery in his movements as his words). Between that, his kicks, and the fact that he was in armor, he managed to get rid of the blighted things without being injured that badly in the process.

He shook out his jerkin just to make sure none of the creatures were hiding in it. Once he was convinced that the kitchen was currently free of them, he turned back towards Ayala. She and Solas were whispering to each other, but more concerning than that was one of the damn gnomes that was perched on her shoulder. The thing spotted Cullen and stuck its fingers in its mouth and protruded a stone tongue in his direction. Cullen snarled and stalked over to the pair (three?) of them. As soon as he was close enough, he reached out for the gnome, only to be thrown back against a far wall by one of Ayala's barriers.

"...Inquisitor, we've talked about you looking before you lash out with a barrier!"

"You surprised me!"

I surprised her. She was feeding an entire line of blood-covered garden gnomes popcorn and I surprised her!

Cullen thought he saw a grin flash across Solas' face before he turned back to Ayala.

"Vhenan, do you recall finding the ring your friend here was describing?"

"Yeah, Cullen took it." She pointed towards him. "But I can find it. He puts all the stuff in his office."

Cullen growled as he stood and dusted himself off. He decided to ignore the unfounded accusation and instead try and figure out just what was being discussed while he was busy trying not to die. "What ring?"

Ayala and the gnome walked out the door leading to the castle proper, leaving Cullen alone with Solas. All things considered, Cullen would rather have been left along with the gnome.

"There is a ring that will allow an individual some modicum of control over the gnomes. They appear willing to work for Ayala, so long as she can supply them with popcorn."

"Why," Cullen wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, "Do they want popcorn?"

"In all honestly, Commander, I have no idea. I admit, I was under the impression that the creatures did not eat, however it does not appear that giving them access to popcorn causes any harm. I suggest you try not to dwell on it."

Cullen barely resisted the urge to scream.

A few days later and the mess caused by the blighted garden gnomes still wasn't cleaned up (and while Cullen would never admit it, the peace brought on by the distinct lack of oblivious scouts was a relief). Cullen had shut the doors of his office to the scene (and the smell) and was trying to re-create some of his files (there were tiny foot and hand prints all over his originals). He looked up when the door swung open and Ayala walked in.

"...Inquisitor. Welcome back. Did you remember the rule this time?"

The one good thing that had come out of the mess was Cassandra insisted that she accompany Ayala again to make sure the mage didn't sneak (or, as was her story, "accidentally forget") anything into Skyhold again.

"Yes, they're bringing everything I found."

"...they?" Cullen wasn't sure why, but he did not like the sound of that.

"Yeah. They. I'm going back to my room now." She turned and strode out of the office.

In her wake, a line of oversized piles of junk, suspended in the air by little stone legs, began to strut into Cullen's office. The first gnome deposited its pile on Cullen's desk and grinned at him before trotting off after Ayala.

"...Cullen?" someone whispered.

"Vhenan, it does not count as informing the Commander if you speak too softly for him to hear you."

Cullen started at the condescending drawl. The next thing he realized, his forehead collided with his desk as his chair slid out from under him. He shook his head a few times to clear the last vestiges of the worst nightmare he could recall having (and check to make sure the piles of useless trinkets he had just watched the gnomes deposit in his office were figments of his imagination).

"Look what I found!" Ayala triumphantly placed something grey on Cullen's desk and grinned at him. "I want to go put him in the garden, he says he'll like it there."

Cullen could feel the throbbing in his forehead, but whether it was from hitting it against the desk or the sight of the thing Ayala wanted to put in the garden, he didn't know. The thing that was currently on his desk looked far too much like Cullen's least-favorite apostate (right down to the superior frown and downcast eyes) with a comically large head. He glared across his office at the man whose image the thing appeared to be carved in.

Once their eyes met, Solas' narrowed and he mouthed, "Get rid of it, Commander!"

Cullen pursed his lips and shook his head. He slammed his hands down on the desk. "OUT!"

Ayala leaned away with a slight frown on her face. "So... I can put him in the garden?"

"NO!" Cullen snatched the thing off his desk.

Ayala jumped back. Her frown was more pronounced and Cullen thought he might have just made her cry. Again.

"Come, vhenan, it appears the Commander is in yet another of his moods."

Solas swung his arm towards the door to Cullen's office to invite Ayala out. She nodded and shuffled off, still looking upset. Solas waited until she had passed him before turning to Cullen with a glare and a hiss of, "Get rid of that, Commander!"

Cullen decided against calling after the man to remind him of which of them was in charge. Instead he grabbed the gnome and rushed to the tallest part of Skyhold he could find.

"You were never here." He shook his finger at the thing, pulled his arm back, and sent it flying as far as he could throw it.

He never heard it hit the ground. Hopefully, the ground was just too far away for him to be able to.

[leenukeath]

Fog before Sunrise (Darkest Dungeon fic)

(I had posted this a while ago but since it went unnoticed I decided to delete it. However since @migi-the-right-hand seemed to enjoy the first chapter, I figured I’d give it another shot, so here it is)

Abom/Leper romantic fic by Leenu

Everything hurt, everything smelled, everything was covered in blood. But they were victorious. And on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Junia was still bashing her mace over the broken remains of the Swine King’s crown while Milicent’s hands kept shaking. Her bandages dropped over and over again as she tried to close an open wound on Bigby’s shoulder. He was holding relatively well, but he had been close to breaking down before the fight ended, he had to return back to his human form and perform some prayers before he could completely lose his mind. Thankfully Baldwin had covered him and landed the final hit on the grotesque mass of flesh calling itself royalty. The little one however had been more trouble than it was worth, dodging the Leper's swipes left and right with mocking squeals. Only when Bigby stunned it with his chains was Junia able to crush its skull with her mace. She must have been too irrational to notice it however since she hadn’t stopped beating the dead flesh around her, all Milicent could suggest for this situation was for the Vestal to “let it out of her systems”.

Baldwin himself could feel that he was not all well after the battle, the torchlight had reduced greatly and the screams of the swine folk around him was gradually pushing him towards an edge he did not want to fall over. At least they now could leave this wretched place, all they needed to do … was walk … back to the Hamlet… he could handle that. He kept saying it to himself as he lit the last torch of their pack, its shaking light faintly illuminating the bloodied map of the place, trying to find the shortest way out. Bigby noticed it took Baldwin a few more tries than usual with the flint to set the torch alight, he kept a close eye on him as they started their walk out.

~~~~~~~~ Nothing was ever easy in this region. Barely a few dozen meters away from the exit, a bunch of maggots blocked their way out. Normally these would not have been a problem for the team, but the abusive Junia kept insisting on rushing the enemy in battle, forcing the Leper to hold back his swipes, lest he accidentally hit her with a misplaced strike. That’s when one of them launched itself on his back and tried to bite his neck, his mask was pushed downwards and he flailed, trying to push the creature off him before he felt it getting tossed away. As he looked back up, he saw a rageful Bigby slamming down the maggot and stepping on it with a sickening crunch before whipping his chains around. Baldwin’s vision however started to blur, his back was still crawling with the sensation of the carrion eater upon him, and it started to spread over his entire body. The brush of their chitinous legs running all over him, under his skin, under his bandages… he ripped off the cloth on his arm. He had to get them out, they were in him, feeding on his rotting muscles. “Not like this! Not like this!” he screamed as he tried to tear off his crawling flesh.

“...-in … ald- … BALDWIN!” Something pulled his hand off his arm and forced him to look forward to the worried face of Bigby, firmly holding his head: “It’s not real. It’s. not. real. Look at me Baldwin”, the Abomination spoke in a smooth but firm tone, keeping a firm grip on the Leper’s head, “Please, stay focused, we’re almost back home.” His response was shaky: “I … I don’t know if I ca-”, “You can and you will.” finished Bigby as he hoisted Baldwin up on his feet and passed one of his arms over his shoulder, helping him walk out of the Warrens, away from the ever growing squeals of the swine folk.

~~~~~~~~ The walk back to the Hamlet was not calm. Bigby had to keep his grip on Baldwin’s arms strong to prevent him from tearing himself apart, even calling for the Beast’s strength by the end. But what was more unbearable to him was to see the Leper’s tears flowing from beneath his mask, and being unable to wipe them off, to wipe away the source that broke this man.

Once at the Hamlet, it was clear that Baldwin could not be left alone to calm down, so he was brought to the Sanatorium. The only treatment they could unfortunately suggest was to “tie him down and wait for it to pass”. Milicent had to accompany Junia to the Abbey, thankfully once her mace had been confiscated she had been easier to guide. Which left Bigby alone as he watched Baldwin getting rolled away tied to a table by thick leather straps as he screamed about the carrion eating bugs devouring him from the inside. At that moment, the Abomination realized he had never felt this powerless. The Beast within could do nothing against this foe, and it must have known it, Bigby could feel it pacing back and forth inside, growling and whining, wanting to plant its teeth into more of the maggots and tear them apart. The human knew this was a poor idea and opted to go to the tavern instead.

~~~~~~~~ It wasn’t good enough. After his third glass Bigby felt that the Beast had calmed down, or at least wanted less to tear everything down, but now the world around him started to sound muffled. The light was either too bright or too low to see anything clearly and the voices surrounding him seemed spoken through a thick layer of fog. After finishing his first bottle, he did not know if it was he or the Beast that made him stand and walk outside. He only vaguely remembered his march to the sanatorium and must have passed out next to the door that kept screaming.

The next day, Bigby woke up with a pounding headache on the cold stone floor, he wasn’t sure if it was because of the drinks, the “bed” he fell upon or the wails next to him that had died down by the time he awoke. Now they had reduced to wracking sobs. The Abomination pulled himself back up and sat on the bench next to the metal door, he thought he could stay for a few minutes to clear his head out, but every time he tried to stand up, something forced him to sit and stay. Oddly enough the Beast sounded quiet here. Listening to the cries of Baldwin however did stir something within Bigby, a strong desire to go inside, hold the Leper’s tied hand and tell him that he would be well, that he would keep protecting him and stay by his side. For now, all he could do was sit and wait… for him.

~~~~~~~~ Baldwin did not know for how long he had been delirious, he couldn’t even remember getting strapped down in the first place. He was awoken by the loud click of a key in the heavy metal door letting the healer enter to assess his state. Holding a piece of parchment, she wrote down a few notes before approaching him with a familiar syringe. He turned his wrist upward in a familiar motion, he had done this several times, though not with the restraints, this was a first. Her expression was unfazed as usual as she gave him his treatment before removing the straps: “You are clear, please make room, there are other patients waiting.”. Quick and to the point, yes Baldwin was back to this familiar reality of coldness and sterility. An improvement to his past hallucinations, but not by that much. He readjusted his mask as he walked out before noticing a familiar shape next to the door: a sleeping Bigby. The Leper briefly paused in his tracks, wondering what had happened to his companion, did he require treatment as well? For what? His train of thought was interrupted as the nurse walked out, noticing the sleeping form and asking Baldwin to move him out of the facility, this was no place for wanderers.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the huddled man and opted to move him to the barracks. As he lifted him, he was surprised to feel how light he was, without those heavy bounds weighing him down, he probably would barely notice him on his back. Each step back to quarters brought a familiar rattle of chains, Baldwin wondered if this was how Bigby lived every day of his life, surrounded by cold restraints and only warmed by the meager cloth on his back. His train of thoughts was paused when he felt the gentle warmth of another body spreading over his back alongside the caress of his chest rising and falling with each breath. And then  there was his heartbeat. Slow but powerful, a soothing rhythm of life that accompanied Baldwin’s steps to the barracks. Once there, he noticed that all beds but his were occupied, he remembered that Bigby didn’t sleep there, opting instead for the hay in the stables, but the Leper did not want to leave him in the cold outside and instead gently set him on his own cot. There was a slight grip that tried to hold on to Baldwin when he put the smaller man down on the sheets, trying to stay close to the soothing warmth. He put the covers over him and quietly walked out to the Abbey.

~~~~~~~~ He realized he did not need meditation after a few minutes of trying to soothe his mind in the cloister, it was not the crawl of the creatures under his skin that kept running through his mind, but instead the firm grip of scarred hands upon his face. A voice that kept trying to pull him out of the pit of madness. He needed air, and a longer walk.

The outskirts of the Hamlet were safe enough to wander through, but he had kept his sword just in case, bandits were always a risk in this place. There was no one out like him at this time, it was no surprise, these roads were deserted a long time ago, the poisoned earth only grew twisted weeds and toxic fungi. Nothing good could ever come from a wretched place as this one. Or so he thought.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted an unusual blur, something that contrasted with the graying flora around him. Walking closer, he was able to make it out: a flower. How could something like this grow in a blighted land as the one he stood upon? How much longer did it have to survive surrounded by the poison that ran through the earth? He did not know, but what he was sure of, was that this was no place for something as innocent as it was. Cautiously digging around it, he pulled out the dirt holding the roots of the small plant, careful to break as little as possible. Cradling the little handful of soil, Baldwin cautiously made his way back to the Hamlet.

~~~~~~~~ Bigby did not understand how he felt at first, his eyes were staying closed but the sensations around him were unfamiliar. His chains were still there, but they were warm, and he didn’t feel the itch of the hay around him, or the scent of the horses he slept next to. Slowly blinking, he awoke to an unfamiliar place, surrounded by beds. He figured this was the barracks, but he was confused as to how he came here, his last memories were of pressing his back against the Sanatorium’s walls and closing his eyes in exhaustion. Taking a look around, he noticed a familiar piece of white cloth on the end of the cot, Bigby recognized it as Baldwin’s spare hood. Did this mean he was in his bed? The Abomination was not quite sure what to do with this knowledge, but the redness rising to his face made him understand how his body felt. Trying to focus on his rational mind, he got up and looked for some clean sheets. He figured that he could do Baldwin this favor for letting him lay there, if the Leper was even the one who put him there.

He had finished replacing the old fabric with clean ones and walked out with the bundle in his arms to drop off at the tubs used by the washerwomen when he spotted a familiar mask walking out of the Abbey with something in hand. Bigby hurried to deposit his bundle before rushing to see the Leper, something in him was pushing him towards Baldwin, he wasn’t sure if the Beast was becoming territorial or if it was something else entirely, but the Abomination took note of it as his feet made their way to his companion.

~~~~~~~~ Baldwin was just done setting the plant into a pot, with some hopefully clean soil from the cloister’s inner garden, he didn’t want to plant it there, there was not enough light for it to survive. As he stepped out of the Abbey, he heard a familiar sound, the unmistakable ringing of chains, a slightly quicker pace … the Abomination was running. Looking up, the Leper was greeted by the sight of Bigby scuttling towards him, only slowing down once he noticed that he was being watched. As he got close enough to speak, his mouth opened for a brief second before closing, then opening once more to try and say something. But nothing was said. Baldwin felt his heart wanting to speak as well, but did not find the words for it. Instead, Bigby asked: “Are you well?”, the Leper answered with a nod: “Yes. I must thank you for your aid, I …”, he tried to find his words as he felt once more the ghost of those hands upon his skin, “I don’t know if I would have been able to make it without you.”. The Abomination smiled, Baldwin was always surprised when it happened, it seemed so out of place on that scarred face, yet radiating a long sought warmth, he almost didn’t hear him speak: “I am … happy to know that. I was very scared for you back there.”. “Did you wait for me at the Sanatorium?” asked the Leper, Bigby nodded before clutching his cloak a little closer to him: “I didn’t really think about it to be honest… but I must thank you for letting me sleep in your cot. I … I already changed the linens, so you don’t have to worry for that.”. There was no need for it, but Baldwin didn’t have the heart to tell him that, Bigby’s eyes lowered to the plant in his hands. Without thinking, he handed it over to him.

The genuine look of surprise on the Abomination’s face was enough to let a small smile grow on the corner of Baldwin’s lips, as his chained hands reached out to take the gift, their fingers brushed for a second. Despite losing a lot of his sense of touch, the Leper could swear he could feel the tingling rush making its way all up his arm and throughout his back, a long lost feeling he needed to experience once more. Bigby, despite not seeing Baldwin’s eyes, could feel the look he was receiving. Their silence spoke between them as he tentatively took hold of the bandaged hand in front of him, lightly pulling him to a hidden haven in the Hamlet.

The Leper followed him, running behind him with a renewed sense of youth.

~~~~~~~~ Bigby was familiar with this deserted corner, only the Survivalist occasionally came there, and today she was nowhere to be seen. He carefully set down the flower in the meager rays of sunlight that broke through the heavy clouds before turning back to Baldwin, hands carefully moving towards his mask. He gently took hold of it before slowly taking it off, he opposed no resistance. He blinked for a few seconds as the light briefly blinded him without his mask on, before looking back up to Bigby who had once more set his hand on his face, gently caressing with his thumb as he smiled. His bandaged hands moved towards the Abomination’s shoulder, slowly pulling him closer until their faces were but a breath away. He then pulled and buried his face into the nape of his neck, hands holding over his back, to feel him, to feel his warmth, to feel his heart, to feel his life. Bigby could feel the cloth on his shoulder growing slightly damp, he didn’t mind it as he caressed Baldwin’s back and head, his beating heart was too happy to care that his own eyes were wet with joy.

As they slowly pulled back, they shared a look before moving closer once more. Their lips brushed against each other for a second before joining themselves. They were together, they were alive. That was all that mattered to them for now.

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Paint

Chapter 26 of The Love That Grows From Violence (post-Trespasser Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up!

In which Felassan reveals yet another hobby. 😂 Featuring gorgeous art this week by @elbenherzart​!!

~8100 words; read on AO3 instead.

The following days were a buzz of activity for Tamaris and Felassan. Gone was the lazy flow of leisurely-executed activities that had previously characterized their time; now, it almost felt to Tamaris like there weren’t enough hours in the day to do everything they wanted to do. 

Their morning sparring sessions were becoming longer and more strenuous as Felassan’s grasp of his magic grew. He switching between types of magic now in his attacks, transitioning from fire to lighting to ice to raw Fade strikes while using barriers to repel Tamaris’s blows, and by the time they finished their sparring these days, they were often too fatigued to fuck right afterwards like they’d been doing when his magical control was more modest.

Outside of their sparring sessions, Felassan kept working on his magic by himself. He tinkered with Dorian’s crystals and pored through the few tomes on magic that he’d found in the mansion’s library, as well as a few tomes that Varric had given him from the stock that was salvaged from the Gallows during the Kirkwall Uprising. Dorian was sending a selection of more complex books from Tevinter, and until they arrived, Felassan cheerfully made fun of the Chantry-based books he did have access to, even as he read them. 

While Felassan was working on his magic, Tamaris worked on getting herself back up to speed about current events happening in Thedas and what the other branches of the wolf hunt were doing. They sat together in the study, Felassan working at the desk while Tamaris spread her papers and reports across the couch and floor, and they frequently made snarky comments to each other about what they were reading. Although it wasn’t pleasant to be so busy again, Tamaris had to admit that it was nice to have a constant companion who was working just as hard as she. 

One day, Tamaris looked up from one of Leliana’s coded letters to find Felassan leaning back against the desk with his arms folded and a pensive frown on his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He met her eye. “That piece of ironwood I gave you. Can I have it?”

Her eyes widened. He’d given her his piece of ironwood so long ago now that she’d been half-wondering if he’d forgotten about it. “Of course,” she said, and she stood from the couch. “What are you — are you going to make a staff with it?”

“I’m going to try,” he said.

“That’s great!” she exclaimed. “That’s – I’ll go get it right now.” She ran upstairs to her bedroom and pulled the short length of ironwood out of her dresser. 

It was wrapped in a fine silk scarf Josephine had given her. She carefully unwrapped it, then ran back downstairs and held it out to Felassan.

He smiled faintly as he took it. “Why do I get the impression that you’re more excited about this than I am?”

“It is exciting,” she insisted. “You’re going to… I mean, I don’t really know what you’re going to do, but you’re going to try and make this into a staff! That means you feel pretty confident that you can do it, right?”

“I’m reasonably confident that I won’t blow up the house while trying,” he said wryly.

She frowned. “Come on, Felassan, don’t be so down on yourself. You’ve got so much more control than you did a month ago.” Just this morning, they’d been discussing the possibility that he shouldn’t spar with her anymore out of concern that he might harm her, since his attacks were surpassing the bounds of her barriers to repel him.

“True,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I am close to what I used to be.” He twirled the ironwood in his fingers and gave her a knowing look. “Using magic in this time truly is a matter of control and skill, you know. The feeling of magic being like a second seamless heartbeat really was an artifact of my time. Waking up in this time was like… like having to learn to speak again. Conscious manipulation of a skill I once took for granted.” He gestured at himself. “This relearning is like doing that all over again, but even more difficult since I can’t do what I intend to do.”

“You couldn’t before,” she said emphatically. “Now you can.”

He shrugged. “I can sometimes.”

She frowned more deeply. “Most of the time. You do what you mean to do three-quarters of the time now.”

He smirked. “Have you been keeping a ledger of my progress that I don’t know about?”

“I’m proud of you, okay?” she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows, and she hunched her shoulders defensively. “I’m just… You thought you might not recover anything when you first got here. You’ve come a long way.”

His expression softened with fondness. “I haven’t tried to do anything particularly complex. Certainly nothing as complex as making a staff.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “Just try, and if you can’t do it right away, keep trying. You’ll get it.”

His smile widened. “Look at you, being all optimistic. If not for your scowl, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

She scoffed and gently shoved his chest. “Go make your staff, you brat. I’ve got reports to read.” She started back toward the couch, but Felassan grabbed her hand before she could get very far.

He pulled her close and stroked the metal joint of her left wrist. “Ise inor vhenan. Do you know what this means?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “‘Heart of fire’?” she said hesitantly.

“‘Fire in the heart,’ yes,” he said. “It’s an Elvhen term for someone who refuses to give up, even when the odds are stacked against them.” He smiled faintly. “Determination to the point of stubbornness.”

“Uh-huh,” she said flatly. “You’re calling me the stubborn one here, I guess?”

His smile widened. “I’m saying you are the fire in my heart, Tamaris. And I appreciate your stubborn reminders that I am, in fact, getting better.”

Her belly burst into giddy butterflies. The fire in my heart... 

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop a stupid grin from spreading across her face. She gave him a chiding look instead. “Now who’s trying to seduce whom?”

His smile curled with mischief, and he tipped her chin up with a gentle finger. “Not when you have so many fascinating reports to read,” he murmured. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips, and for a blissful moment, she melted helplessly into his kiss.

He leaned away from her with a smile, and Tamaris grinned goofily at him before tottering back to her spot on the couch. Felassan chuckled and returned to his desk, and it was with a light and happy heart that Tamaris returned to her pile of reports.

Their evenings were spent with Varric and Dorian discussing the ways they could use Felassan’s information to benefit the wolf hunt. Tamaris felt that getting in touch with the Grey Wardens’s commanders should be a top priority. “We should be telling them not to kill the last two archdemons, right?” she said one night as they gathered at the dining table with Dorian’s crystal. “They should know the archdemons might be guarding against the Blight, so if anything, the Wardens should be protecting the archdemons from being found by the darkspawn.” Based on the information that Felassan had outlined, they had come to the conclusion that events like the Fifth Blight happened when the darkspawn infected the archdemons, and not that the archdemons were galvanizing the darkspawn into action like everyone seemed to think.

Felassan shrugged. “It probably would be ideal for them to stop attacking the archdemons, yes.”

“But you don’t think they’ll stop,” Varric said.

Felassan smiled faintly. “I think they have several centuries’ worth of evidence that killing archdemons coincides with the end of a Blight event, and no reason to accept the hypothesis of a random elf.”

“Well, we still have to try,” Tamaris retorted.

“I am not saying not to try,” Felassan said. “But I also think it might be worth launching our own independent ventures to find the archdemons.”

Varric grimaced. “That’s a pretty ambitious undertaking, Jester.”

“True,” Felassan said casually. “You could also speak to individual lower-ranking Wardens rather than approaching their commanders.”

Dorian’s voice floated up from the crystal. “Why shouldn’t we try and approach the Warden-Commanders?”

“People in charge are usually disinclined to listen to strange ideas,” Felassan said. “They’re considerably more skeptical than the average person. The more experience they have, the more convinced in their rightness — and the more closed-off — they tend to be.”

Varric chuckled. “Not a fan of authority figures, are you?”

Felassan widened his eyes. “I respect authority figures deeply. That doesn’t mean I listen to them or follow what they say.”

Tamaris snorted with amusement. Felassan smiled at her, then casually waved his hand. “Anyway, we should start looking for stray lower-ranking Wardens. Not only might they be more open-minded, but they could lead us to Weisshaupt, if that’s still where you think the Wardens are gathering.”

Varric scribbled a memo in his notebook. “All right. More efforts to find the Wardens. Any other thoughts?”

 Dorian spoke up. “I was thinking about the fact that Solas has so much knowledge at his disposal now, with those two other souls piggybacking on his body. It certainly puts us at a disadvantage, but he’s not the only person we know whose head is stuffed with ancient knowledge.”

Tamaris nodded ruefully; she’d been thinking the same thing. “You mean Morrigan.”

 “Yes,” Dorian said. “We should try and get her assistance. There must be information from the Well of Sorrows that can benefit us.”

She ran her hand slowly through her hair. When Dorian spoke again, his voice was gentle, as though he could see her reluctance. “I know you wanted to let her raise Kieran in peace, but if Solas drops the Veil, there will be nowhere safe left for them to live. Or any of us, for that matter.”

“No, I know. You’re right.” Tamaris sighed and lowered her hand. “How should we even go about trying to find her? She doesn’t care about keeping in touch with anyone.”

Varric tapped his quill idly on his notebook. “The Hero of Ferelden would be a good bet. Nightingale said she and Morrigan were close back in the day.”

Tamaris frowned. “That was over ten years ago. And isn’t Mahariel already going off to spy on the qunari?”

“She’d have time to send a letter,” Varric said reasonably. 

“I guess,” Tamaris said, somewhat reluctantly. She still felt guilty about the Hero of Ferelden doing so many tasks for the wolf hunt after everything she’d already done for Ferelden, but no one seemed to have any choice about getting pulled into all of this. 

“Okay,” Varric said as he took another note. “Get the hero to write to the swamp witch.” He looked up at Felassan and Tamaris. “Any other ideas?”

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about, actually,” Tamaris said. She gave Felassan a critical look. “The Well of Sorrows. The fact that it even existed and that Mythal had warriors who were bound to her will. Don’t you think that’s fucked up?”

He pulled a little face. “It’s not a fate I would ever choose, that’s for certain.”

“So why did she make anyone choose it?” Tamaris demanded. “Why make anyone be bound to her will?”

“Remember that the Sentinel order arose around the time that the Evanuris were all starting to war with each other,” Felassan said. “In retrospect, I wonder if the rising of the Sentinels might have been the first sign that Mythal was worried she would be betrayed. An order of warriors who are bound to your will means they can’t betray you, not even if you die. Allegedly die, that is,” he added.

Tamaris folded her arms. In her opinion, that was no excuse. “What did Solas think of the Sentinels when Mythal started recruiting them?” she asked.

Felassan grimaced again. “He was… conflicted,” he said slowly. “On the one hand, Abelas and the others were willingly giving themselves into Mythal’s will, so technically they were submitting to her by choice. But by submitting to her, they were effectively making themselves her slaves.” Felassan twisted his lips ruefully. “It certainly kept him up at night, even if he didn’t speak against her outright.”

Tamaris relaxed slightly at this. “It didn’t seem to sit right with him when we were there, either.” 

Felassan nodded and gave her an appraising look. “You never considered drinking from the Well, did you?”

“I mean, sure, I considered it for a second,” she said. “Until Solas refused point-blank to drink from it. If he was saying no, then I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do it.”

Felassan snorted a laugh. “Wise of you to follow his example. It would be a very different Tamaris sitting before us now if you had drunk from the Vir’Abelasan.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps you wouldn’t be sitting here at all, if Solas really is hosting Mythal.”

Tamaris frowned, but Dorian filled in his unspoken thoughts. “Fasta vass. You think he would have taken control of Tamaris via Mythal?”

Tamaris’s guts went cold at the thought, and Felassan’s answer only discomfited her more. “It’s possible,” he said.

“So that means Morrigan could be in trouble now, then,” Tamaris said tensely. “And Kieran too.”

“Also possible,” Felassan said.

“Shit. Fuck.” She ran her hands through her hair, then gestured at Varric’s notebook. “Write that down. Trying to find her should be a priority.”

“Fen’Harel won’t kill them, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Felassan said. 

Varric gave him a skeptical look. “If he’s willing to bring the Veil down on us, he’s probably not too concerned about killing one woman and her kid.”

“It’s not like that,” Tamaris said. “Solas doesn’t want to kill more people than he has to.” 

Varric looked at her in surprise, and Dorian sounded surprised as well when he replied. “That almost sounded like you’re defending him.”

“She’s not defending him,” Felassan said. “She’s just explaining him.”

She looked up to find Felassan smiling at her. But instead of smiling back, she frowned. “Can you explain something to me? Why did he trust her?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Who, Morrigan?”

She gave him a chiding look. “No. Mythal. She was so fucking shady. The dwarf stuff, the Well of Sorrows stuff, hiding her dragon without telling him so he thought she was dead, not to mention how smug and bitchy she was when I met her, and all the shitty things Morrigan said about being raised by her. How could Solas have trusted her?”

His smile began to melt into that look of anachronistic melancholy that made Tamaris’s heart twist. “I don’t know if it is possible to explain the strength of the ties that exist between them,” he said quietly. “Can any of us even imagine the depth of love that could develop between two beings who have known each other for several thousand years? Solas knew Mythal since he was barely more than a wisp. She was one of the main sources of pride that fed and fostered him before he became an elf. She shaped him in ways that none of us can fully understand. Even if he later realized that some of her proudest achievements were terrible mistakes, the depth of his devotion to her would have made him incapable of seeing her as truly flawed.”

Dorian hummed an acknowledgement. “Love is blind, hm?”

Varric grunted. “It’s a literary cliché for a reason.”

“It really is,” Felassan said. His tone was jocular, but his smile was wry and sad.

Tamaris reached over and squeezed his thigh. Then Varric snapped his fingers. “Hey, that reminds me. I was thinking about the whole Mythal-hiding-her-dragon thing the other day, and I thought, uh… well, what if Mythal’s dragon really is dead?”

Felassan straightened in his chair. “Interesting. Then how do you propose that she survived?”

Varric put his quill down. “Well, Hawke had this amulet that Flemeth told her to take to the Dalish. She took it to our friend Merrill’s clan, and Merrill did some kind of ritual, and Flemeth popped out of the amulet like… like, uh…”

“Like magic?” Dorian suggested wryly.

Varric laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Obviously.”

Dorian chuckled, but to Tamaris’s surprise, Felassan just stared at Varric without laughing.

“Felassan, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He continued to stare at Varric. “Why didn’t you mention this the other day when I was talking about the dragons?”

Varric shrugged. “I didn’t think of it then.”

“I wish you had,” Felassan said. “That changes everything. If Mythal’s dragon truly was killed, but she had another piece of her life essence stored in an amulet…” He trailed off, then snorted a sudden little laugh. “Amulets are far easier to hide than dragons, you know.”

Varric shrugged and picked up his quill. “I mean, I could be wrong. You can read The Tale of the Champion yourself and see what you think.”

“You should read it, actually,” Tamaris piped in. “There’s more detail in there about Merrill and her eluvian, too.” She turned to Varric. “It’s the same eluvian that gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what Daisy said,” Varric replied.

Felassan looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, an eluvian gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight?” he said sharply.

Varric tilted his head in an equivocal gesture. “Well, maybe it didn’t directly give Mahariel the blight, especially if only living stuff can have the blight. But it was definitely involved, from what Daisy told us.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, eluvians aren’t alive, are they?”

“No, they’re… they’re not alive,” Felassan said numbly. He kept staring at Varric in a stunned sort of way that made Tamaris nervous.

She tapped his thigh. “Felassan, are you–?”

He suddenly burst out laughing — a distinctly hysterical-sounding laugh. Tamaris shifted closer to him and held out her hand, and he grabbed it as he dragged in a breath. 

She squeezed his fingers. “Just breathe,” she said soothingly.

He nodded, then burst out another uncontrolled laugh. “Just when I think I have a grasp on this time, I realize something enormously significant that I missed,” he wheezed.

“What do you think you missed?” Dorian asked.

Felassan giggled before dragging in another calming breath. “An eluvian that’s steeped somehow in the blight makes me think there is a specific place that it was keyed to access. A place that was so catastrophically affected by the blight that the eluvians connected to it might be growing red lyrium.”

Tamaris’s eyes widened. “Arlathan?” she breathed.

Felassan nodded and chuckled, and Tamaris sighed. “Fuck. So we should try and get Merrill somewhere safe too, then.”

Varric sighed. “I hate to tell you this, but I haven’t heard from Daisy in a while.”

Tamaris’s stomach went cold once more. “You think she’s working with Solas?”

Varric twisted his lips sadly. “She’d have good reason to, if he sweet-talked her with stories about the ancient elves.”

Felassan sighed. “That’s good.”

Tamaris frowned at him, affronted. “It’s good? What do you mean, it’s good? One more ally for Solas means one less for us!”

Felassan gave her a chiding look. “It would also mean that an eluvian leading straight to the Black City is under Solas’s control and not, for example, Tevinter’s. Neither is… ideal, but having that eluvian in Tevinter hands is probably worse.” He cocked his head. “Probably.”

“That hurts my feelings slightly,” Dorian said.

Felassan chuckled, then sighed and rubbed his forehead, and Tamaris studied him with a pang of sympathy. He looked so tired. 

She squeezed his hand once more. He gave her a little smile, then squeezed her hand in turn before kicking his feet up on the table. “In any case, I know what’s next on my reading list.” He shot Varric a smirk. “Maybe you should just give me an annotated bibliography of your work so I can catch up on everything I need to know about the last twenty years.”

Varric huffed in amusement. “I guess I could get you a copy of all my works. I am just a humble servant to my loyal readers, after all.”

Felassan smiled at him. “A sweet sentiment. That reminds me, how is your most loyal reader?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Cassandra’s fine. Yes, I wrote her a smut scene. And no, you can’t read it.”

Dorian burst out laughing while Felassan complained playfully about not being allowed to read Varric’s smut, and Tamaris listened to the three of them faux-bickering with a bittersweet feeling in her chest. 

Later that evening, long after Dorian ended the call and Varric had gone home, Tamaris trudged gloomily back to the study to read some more reports. A minute later, Felassan sidled into the study as well.

He pushed some of her papers aside to sit down beside her, and Tamaris poked him in the arm. “Hey, don’t touch my mess. I have a system.”

He draped his arm over the back of the couch. “You’re not really going to continue working now, are you?”

She scratched her ear. “Well, I — there was one last report I was in the middle of reading, so I just want to finish it.”

“Finish it tomorrow,” he said. 

She gave him a chiding look. “You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re working far too hard for someone who doesn’t actually have anything to do.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do you have to rub it in? I feel guilty enough already.”

He tilted his head. “You feel guilty staying in this house with me while my magic is too uncontrolled to travel?”

Her eyes widened in dismay. “Wha– no, that’s not what I mean at all!”

“Then why bother feeling guilty?” he asked.

She gazed at him in exasperation. “It’s — I can’t just turn it off, okay? Everyone else is working hard, including you. I need to do something.”

He shrugged. “You can help me with making my staff.”

Her irritation melted into surprise. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “You have full control of your magic. It will form a stabilizing influence to help me channel mine into the ironwood.”

She smiled at the thought of helping Felassan with something magical, then wilted slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want Dorian’s help instead? His mana reserves are way stronger than mine.”

Felassan smirked. “Jealous, are you?”

“No, for once,” she said snarkily. “Just being practical.”

His smile widened. “So you admit that you are jealous of my friendship with Dorian.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her half-read report. “Fuck off and let me read my report, will you?”

He chuckled and plucked the papers from her hand. “To answer your question, no. I don’t want his help. Even if he could help via the sending crystal, which he can’t, I would still be asking for your help instead.”

“And why’s that?” she grumbled.

“Because I’ll enjoy feeling the hum of your magic in my fingers when I use the staff,” he replied.

She looked at him with fresh curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll leave a magical signature in the wood if you help me make my staff,” he explained. “It will be an enjoyable feeling when I’m blowing apart our enemies.” 

“Oh,” she said dumbly. His tone was casual, but she couldn’t help but feel oddly flattered that he would want to feel her magical signature during a fight. 

She shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, um. Sure, I’d be happy to help.”

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll let you know when I need your hands.”

She blinked in confusion. “Oh, you – you don’t want to do this now?”

“Oh, no,” he said casually. “My experimentation today proved that I need more time to practice the spells for imbuing our signatures into the wood, not to mention tailoring it to the size-modulating spell I’ll be putting on the staff.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Besides, we’re not working anymore tonight.” 

“We’re not, huh?” she said wryly.

“No,” Felassan said. “We’re going to do something fun.”

His tone and the curl of his lips were mischievous, and Tamaris smirked. “Like what?” she said drolly.

His answer surprised her, though. “Like painting the walls.” 

She wilted. “You want to start painting the walls? Now?” She eyed the plain washed walls of the study with some resignation.

“Not those walls, and not that kind of paint,” he said. “Come.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Tamaris sighed and allowed him to pull her up from the couch. He led her to the foyer and jerked his thumb at the east-facing wall of the foyer, which they’d painted a deep peacock blue. “This bores me,” he said. “I think we should paint a mural.”

She balked slightly. “A mural?” Her mind instantly went to the murals Solas had painted on the walls of the rotunda: those huge, floor-to-ceiling works that he’d painted during the year he’d spent by her side — beautiful masterpieces that she’d once considered as tributes to his love for her, but which had later been too painful for her to look at, leading her to avoid the rotunda altogether. 

Felassan, as usual, picked up on her thoughts. He gave her a knowing look. “Not a mural like Fen’Harel’s. Something much simpler and much less planned.” 

Tamaris gave him a cautious look. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing in particular, really,” he said. He looked at the wall and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “I usually just start painting and see where my hands take me.”

She gazed at him with growing confusion. “W-wait. You… do you know how to paint?”

He shrugged. “I have been known to paint sometimes.”

She gaped at him. “Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t want to be made fun of for having yet another hobby.”

She gently punched his arm. “Don’t be stupid! I would never make fun of you for being an artist! Would I have seen anything you painted? In the Vir Dirthara or any ancient temples or anything?” Her eyes widened. “Or — or even at Skyhold?”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “You flatter me by suggesting anything I paint would be worthy of such illustrious locations.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That's not an answer.”

He chuckled. “You’re right. And you might have seen some of my work, though it would be hard to tell it apart from the work of others.”

“What do you mean?”

He let out a little huff of laughter and rubbed his mouth, as though he was thinking of a private joke. “Did you ever see quick, messy paintings of elven warriors going to battle on halla?”

“Yes, in many places,” she said. She paused, then double-taked at him. “Wait, those were by you?”

“Not just me,” Felassan said. “Fen’Harel’s rebels had a tendency to leave our mark in the places where we foiled our foes.”

Tamaris stared at him, then smiled. “You vandalized the Evanuris’s property while you were freeing their slaves?”

Felassan grinned. “I like to think we improved their decor, much like you and I are doing in this house. Now let’s see how we can improve this wall, why don’t we?” He started opening the pails of paint, then glanced up at Tamaris. “Can you bring some bowls so we can mix the colours?”

“Sure,” she said. She hurried to the kitchen and came back a minute later to find that Felassan had already laid some dropcloths on the floor along the base of the wall.

He gestured to the floor. “Set them here. You don’t mind ruining those bowls with paint, do you?”

“I don’t give a single fuck about these bowls,” she said.

He snickered. “I figured as much.” He poured together some red and yellow paint to make a deep orange shade, then looked up at her as he stirred the paint. “What colours are you in the mood for?”

She blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said drolly. “What colours do you want to start with?”

She recoiled. “What? No. I’m not — I’ll just watch.”

He paused in his stirring. “That won’t do. You have to paint.”

She laughed at his bossy tone. “No I don’t. I’ll just watch.” She sat on the carpet and wrapped her arms around her knees, perfectly willing to watch Felassan the way she used to watch Solas during the long nights when he painted his murals.

Felassan gave her a chiding look, then gestured for her to come closer. “Come, avise. Paint with me. You’ll like it.”

She stubbornly shook her head. “I don’t know how to paint.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think I knew how to paint before I started vandalizing the Evanuris’s walls?”

“I thought you were ‘improving their decor’, not vandalizing,” Tamaris retorted.

He grinned. “Silly me. Of course that’s what we were doing. Now come, I need your help to improve this wall. What colours do you want to add?”

She gave him a knowing look. “If I touch that wall, I’m going to fuck it up.”

“Anything you do will be an improvement over the wallpaper that was here before,” he said.

She snorted a laugh. “You know what, that’s true.”

He raised his eyebrows hopefully, and Tamaris finally gave in with a sigh. “Fine. How about…” She paused and gazed idly into his expectant violet eyes.

“Purple,” she said. “Mix me up some purple paint.” 

“Purple it is,” he said. He mixed together some red and blue paint and added some white to lighten the shade, then held out the bowl.

She stood up and took the bowl. “I need a brush.”

“Use your fingers,” he said.

She recoiled slightly. This would make an enormous mess if she painted with her hands. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about vandalism,” he said. “I take it very seriously.”

He was grinning. His eyes were dancing with mischief and he looked so carefree and young, and Tamaris couldn’t help but smile in response to his joy. 

She blew out a breath. “All right, but if it looks really bad, we’re painting over it.” She dipped her fingers in the thick paint, then smeared some of it on the wall. 

She immediately regretted what she’d done. The paint began to run in slow drips, and Tamaris was forced to catch it with her fingers and smear it even more. Exasperated, she started rubbing the paint haphazardly onto the wall until it was a blobby patch of purple.

She threw Felassan an I-told-you-so look. “See? It looks like shit.”

He shook his head. “Keep going,” he said. He was still smiling, and Tamaris gazed at him with rising annoyance.

“Keep going with what?” she demanded. “It’s an ugly smudge.”

“You had something in mind when you started painting,” he said. “Keep going with it.” He picked up the bowl of orange paint, then padded over to the other end of the wall and began dashing the paint onto the wall in quick practiced strokes that clearly told her he’d done this a thousand times.

She sighed, then dipped her fingers in the paint again and kept slapping it haphazardly onto the wall in a series of vaguely rounded irregularly-sized blobs. A few minutes later, she set the bowl down and wiped her hand on the dropcloth before looking over at what Felassan was doing. 

Her eyebrows jumped up. Felassan was painting a series of what looked like stylized orange teardrops that varied in size and shape, but the shifting shades of orange and red and yellow were clearly meant to signify fire. 

She narrowed her eyes. The shifting colours in his painted flamedrops represented such a subtle blend. How was he managing to make the colours meld so seamlessly? He was holding the bowl of orange paint, but the buckets of yellow and red were sitting on the floor a good two metres away from him. 

She stepped away from the wall, and Felassan looked over at her. His gaze darted to the wall, and he smiled. “Clouds,” he said.

She grunted and rolled her eyes. “Really original, I know.”

He gave her a chiding look. “A wise woman once said you shouldn’t be so down on yourself.” He approached her end of the wall and examined her purple smudgy clouds for a second, then dipped his fingers into his bowl of orange paint and added a dash of orange to the underside of each cloud.

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. The orange underline gave the impression that each blobby cloud was lit from below by the setting sun. It was exactly what she’d been thinking of when she started to paint: sitting on the roof with Felassan while the fading light of day lit the clouds aglow from beneath.

She looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Better? Worse?” He smiled faintly. “Did I ruin your artistic vision?” 

She swallowed hard, feeling oddly emotional by his addition. She shook her head. “You un-ruined it,” she said gruffly. 

His smile widened. “Oh good. I’d always dearly hoped to un-ruin something during the course of my life.” 

She scoffed, then nodded her chin at his drops of flame. “What are you doing over there?”

“Sketching,” he said. “Working out an idea.” He nodded at her clouds. “Keep going. Or paint something else.”

She nodded, but as Felassan returned to his side of the wall with his bowl of orange paint, she couldn’t help but watch him instead. He continued painting drops of flame on the wall, then eventually put the orange paint aside and picked up the bucket of green paint instead. He set the bucket on the floor by his feet and started scrawling green shapes on the wall that looked like stylized leaves, and Tamaris was once again awed — and bemused — by how seamlessly he seemed to be blending the orange of the flames into the green of the leaves. 

She watched him with unabashed interest, her own painting endeavours forgotten in favour of watching Felassan instead. He eventually paused and smiled at her. “If you’re going to stare, this really is your chance to paint a picture. The paints are open and everything.” 

She smiled at his cheeky remark. “I’d honestly rather watch,” she said. “I want to see what you come up with.”

He gave her a reproving look, and she waved dismissively. “I mean it. I’ll have more fun watching you than I will with actually painting.”

He frowned at her for a moment longer, then finally shrugged. “All right, but you’re going to start off the next mural. I insist on it.”

She wilted slightly. “The next one?”

He nodded. “We need to cover every wall of this house with filthy knife-ear art.”

Tamaris burst out a laugh. “That would be pretty good revenge for how aggressively Orlesian this house was before we got here.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” he said complacently. “I have always enjoyed exacting petty revenge through the use of paint.”

She beamed at him. “You really are a vandal, you know that?”

He bowed politely to her. “Thank you, Tamaris. That warms my heart.”

She chuckled and settled on the carpet once more. She hadn’t been self-deprecating when she’d told Felassan she wanted to watch him instead of doing the painting. She’d always enjoyed watching artists working on their craft — and one of the artists she’d most enjoyed watching, unfortunately, was Solas.

She’d never seen an artist who worked the way Solas did. Watching him transform the rotunda walls from raw rock to smooth plaster to charcoal sketches and finally to fully-rendered murals had been, in her eyes, its own form of magic. Solas’s careful stepwise method had also been something to marvel at; he always started with a lovingly-crafted small-scale sketch of each design before translating the sketch to the walls in perfect proportion, and the actual painting of the mural was an all-night process that exemplified his focus and methodical devotion to the art. During those all-night painting sessions, Solas was intent and focused and almost completely silent, and Tamaris couldn’t remember a single time when he’d faltered or made a mistake in the execution of his spectacular works.

Watching Felassan paint, on the other hand... truly, it was nothing like watching Solas. Felassan hadn’t planned a thing, opting instead to experiment directly on the walls with his fingers instead of the sorts of fine brushes that Solas used to use. His movements were loose and relaxed and lacking in precision, and he kept jumping between the different elements of the scene he was creating: adding a bunch of those green leaf shapes, then adding some more flames, then swiping a streak of gold in a bold vertical arch through the cluster of flames before starting to add some violet clouds to his end of the mural. He hummed to himself as he worked and made little playful comments to her over his shoulder, and when the occasional drop of paint rolled slowly down the wall from his quick and messy application, he simply blended it back into the wall or painted over it with a new leaf or flame. 

She stared shamelessly at Felassan’s emerging work. His application method appeared slapdash and careless, but the effect was anything but; his work was striking and bold, and to Tamaris’s eye, very appealing. The lines varied from dark saturated lines to graceful faded streaks, giving his mural a dynamic and energetic feel that was more emotion than story, and Tamaris felt energized in turn as she watched him moving from one end of the wall to the other and back. 

The longer he worked, the less he spoke and the more focused he seemed to become, even as his movements remained loose and flowing. He looked incredibly graceful as he moved across the wall, and he was using both hands now to paint, and–

Wait. Both hands? she thought. And with a jolt, she realized that Felassan was no longer holding a bowl of paint in his hand. Even so, the colours continued to flow from his fingers as though he had dipped his fingers into the paint. But how…? 

She narrowed her eyes and watched him more carefully. And eventually, with a rising of wonder, she realized what he was doing. He kept gesturing in the direction of the paints and twisting his wrists as though he was dipping his hands into the paints, and the amount of paint in the buckets and the bowls was actually decreasing in accordance with the movements of his hands. 

It’s magic, she thought in amazement. He’s using magic to pull the paint to his hands and to blend the colours. Her heart was pounding now with excitement at his exquisitely controlled magical feat, but she continued to watch him in silence, unwilling to disturb his flow by commenting on what he was doing. 

He flicked his wrist at the bucket of gold paint, then dragged his fingers in a long horizontal line from the center of the vertical arch and back toward Tamaris’s end of the wall, and Tamaris finally recognized the shape that dominated most of the mural: a stylized bow and arrow, with a background of flames toward the front of the bow that blended into leaves toward the end. Enthralled by his design and by the magical way he was executing it, she wrapped her arms loosely around her knees and continued to watch as he added a silvery-white bowstring, then a purple-silvery arrowhead and purple-and-red fletching to the arrow. 

He stood back briefly to study the design before going over the golden bow and arrow again with a smattering of brown, making the bow and arrow look like a combination of wood and gold. 

He paused again and idly scratched the back of his neck, and Tamaris watched with a swelling of affection as he smeared some paint on his neck. 

He turned to face her then. “Look at me?” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his face, and her breath stalled in her chest; his beautiful amethyst eyes were bright with focus. He studied her face intently for a long second, then nodded and turned back to the wall. He flicked his wrist at the paints, then started painting over the leaves again with a slightly lighter shade of green that blended into a darker green at the edges. 

When he finished re-painting the leaves, he stood back once more and folded his arms as he surveyed his work, and Tamaris stared shamelessly at his handsome profile as he studied the wall. He carelessly flicked his wrist at the paint buckets, then flicked his fingers at the wall, and Tamaris watched as a fine blend of white and bright blue droplets appeared in misty-looking streaks near the upper edge of the bow — a fine blend that would have required painstaking care to paint by hand, but which Felassan’s magic had rendered quick and doable. His magic, which he was clearly gaining better control over with every passing day… 

Her heart throbbed again with an undeniable surge of pride. Felassan continued to flick streaks and curls of fine blue-and-white droplets across the mural, and Tamaris eventually realized that the streaks and curls looked like smoke, which made sense given the omnipresent stylized fire that dominated much of the right-hand side of the mural. 

He stepped away from the wall one more time to examine his work, then finally nodded in satisfaction. He turned to face her with a smile. “So? What do you think?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful,” she said. Then she immediately regretted her inane compliment. It sounded so paltry compared to the way her heart was pounding in her chest, as though it wanted to escape the confines of her ribcage and leap into his open hands.

He sat beside her with a satisfied sigh. “I’m glad you like it. It’s us, after all.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

He gestured at the wall. “It’s us. A slow arrow dancing with flames. And a little bit of deep mushroom smoke, of course.” He smirked, then gently lifted her chin and studied her face. “I’m not convinced that I captured the shade of your eyes right, though.”

“My eyes?” she said stupidly.

“Yes, your eyes,” he said vaguely. He was still carefully examining her face. “Those green shapes on the left half of the wall.”

Those are my eyes? she thought. The green shapes he’d painted, then painstakingly repainted a second time to adjust their shade: those were meant to represent her eyes? 

He chuckled and lowered his hand. “Tell me the truth. You thought they were leaves, didn’t you?”

She stared wordlessly at him, overwhelmed by the perfection of this moment — the perfection of him. Her body was still buzzing with energy from watching him paint, and her heart was humming besottedly from the careful way he’d inspected the verdancy of her eyes. The memory of his loose and joyful movements danced across her mind as surely as his paint-slathered hands had danced across the wall, and gods, the laughter in his voice and in his smile… 

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was shocked he couldn’t hear it. She swallowed hard and gazed at the mural once more — this mural that was them, that was her and Felassan together: a slow arrow dancing in flames, splashed boldly across the wall of this house for everyone to see. As Tamaris studied the bold jewel tones of the freshly-painted wall, it dawned on her that she had never seen any mural more beautiful than the one Felassan had just rendered with his magic and his own two hands. 

Tamaris tore her gaze away from the mural and met his bright violet eyes. “I love you,” she said.

A slow and brilliant smile lit his entire face, like a bursting of joy that rendered him even more painfully handsome than he already was. Tamaris stared gormlessly at him, her throat thickening with emotion as she took in the tenderness in his face. 

He cradled her neck in his palm. “I know, Tamaris,” he murmured.

Her heart squeezed with nerves. She swallowed hard, then smacked his chest. “You know? What do you mean, you know?”

His smile grew wider and softer at once. “I know you love me. I don’t need to hear you say it.”

Feeling slightly stung, she scoffed and tried to push him away. “You’re so fucking smug.”

He pulled her easily into his lap. “I don’t need to hear you say it, but I have been waiting for you to say it first.”

“Why?” she complained. “Why did I have to say it first?”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to say it back if I said it first,” he replied.

She darted him a cautious look. If he said it first? So that meant — did that mean…?

She cleared her throat and rubbed at the dent on her metal arm. “So… say it back, meaning…?”

He chuckled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It means that I love you too, felasil’ain. But I think you already knew that.” 

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she gazed silently into his glittering amethyst eyes. As usual, Felassan was right. He’d been right when he said that empty words couldn’t wipe her bitterness away. And now, in this moment, he was right when he said that mere words of love weren’t necessary. Just because he’d never said he loved her didn’t mean she didn’t know — and if she dug beneath the surface of her own stubborn insecurity, she could openly admit that she’d known all along.

She knew Felassan loved her; of course she knew, because it was infused into his every act. He made foods that he knew she would like and concocted herbal remedies for her withdrawal and her pain. He offered her massages and pulled her out of her terrible moods with his terrible jokes. He kissed her like there was nothing else he would rather do, and he fucked her like he was trying to wring every last shiver of pleasure from her body, and he was patient — almost unfathomably patient. He listened while she talked about Solas, and he’d tolerated the torture of their heated trysts until she was ready to have sex again, and he’d waited quietly while she held back the words of love that seemed to consume her more with every passing day.

No longer would she be consumed by those words. No longer would she be held hostage by them — especially not when his feelings for her were so patently obvious. 

She straddled him and cradled his paint-stained neck in her palms. “I love you,” she said huskily. “I — you’re right, okay? I wanted to say it for weeks but I felt — I don’t know, shy or something. I was being stupid.”

He squeezed her waist soothingly. “You were not being stupid. And there’s no need to explain. I told you, I don’t need you to say it.”

“Well, I need to say it,” she retorted. “And you deserve to hear it, okay? I fucking love you.”

He grinned at her, then broke into laughter. “How is it possible for someone to be affectionate and rude at once?”

She tsked and smacked his chest. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, and she kissed him. 

He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her tongue with his, and Tamaris happily capitulated to the heat of his kiss. When he broke away from her lips to laugh, she was helpless to do anything but laugh in turn.

They sat twined together on the floor, kissing and laughing and making fun of each other in husky murmured voices, and Tamaris basked shamelessly in the ample evidence of Felassan’s love. His lips pulled gently at hers and his hands moved carefully over her body, and there on the wall, looming benevolently over them in bright and brilliant strokes of colour, was the most visible sign of his love: a mural rendered by Felassan’s bare hands — a mural showing his slow arrow dancing fearlessly and boldly through the fire of her heart.